The Coming War
by Uroboros75
Summary: Tensions abound on all sides as the Silent War ramps up. Part III in the Pulling the Strings series.
1. Prologue: Of Millennia and Days Both

_A/N: Welcome, everyone, to the third installment of Pulling the Strings!  
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_Seeing as this is the third part of an ongoing series, I would heavily recommend that you go read PTS I (The Arrival) and PTS II (The Deceived) before continuing with PTS III, if you have not yet done so. They have recently been revised, correcting mistakes and whatnot, so be sure to check that out.  
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_For new readers, I would also recommend you visit my profile, where a general summary of the series is found (if you're interested in knowing what you might be getting into), as well as an elaboration as to the peculiar format the series takes.  
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_The Coming War is a big one at ~100K words, so you can expect quite the trip. I intend to put up a new chapter every other day, too, which is always fun.  
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_I suppose that's all for now. As always, feedback of any kind is welcome. And just to tease, the prologue below gives insight into one of Fringe's most enigmatic characters...  
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_Enjoy!  
_

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* * *

Prologue: Of Millennia and Days Both

_Humanity is naught but the collection of its moments and the sum of its parts. That some strike be used to counter others is as natural a selection process as the lion and the gazelle, _Homo Sapiens_ and _Cro-Magnon_. In this there is comfort, should it be needed: _

_This is not a war of hatred and anger. _

_It is a battle of survival._

The words he had written long ago came back to him as he laboured absent-mindedly over the paperwork laid out on his desk. He was never meant for administration; for William Bell, purpose lied in the pursuit of knowledge – scientific, philosophical, historical, esoteric – and the dream of breaching the limits of what was possible, of transcending them. Alas, these bureaucratic affairs were yet another necessary evil he was forced to contend with in this life-long pursuit, and so he plodded on, much to the displeasure of creased hands aching of encroaching arthritis. He paused in his work, massaging them, even though he found no relief from the flaring pain. The day's load was unusually heavy, and he was growing tired of the interminable signing and approving and reviewing.

He was growing tired of many things nowadays, it seemed.

Bell arose from his leather seat to approach the window panes of his office, drinking from Manhatan's vast, sunlit panorama. He currently found himself on the 102nd floor of the World Trade Center's South Tower, which, along with the five floors beneath him, comprised the main administrative branch of _BellMedic_, the enterprise he founded upon first setting foot in this new world, so many years ago.

How amazed he had been when he first crossed over; while he had caught glimpses of another world in the heavy usage of LSD with Walter Bishop in the 70s, nothing could have prepared him for the sights that awaited him there. Even now, twenty-three years since that inaugural escapade, the novelty of the "Other Side" persisted still.

Yet in those twenty-three years, he had also acquainted himself with the grimmer facets of the Other Side's reality.

In a move as reckless as it was necessary, he sought to move behind enemy lines. His visits began as pure reconnaissance, learning about the world that stood as a potential threat to the safety of the other. In those days, the ripples of the Reiden Lake aftermath were fresh, and the first hints of the chaos to come were cropping up along the East Coast.

Exploiting this rising upheaval, he made his mark.

Aided by a most unexpected ally, he took advantage of differences in either world's technological advancements, patenting medical technologies otherwise commonplace in his world, the profits of which he used to form the BellMedic Corporation in late 1987. He would later apply what he learned there back home, creating a company by the same name five years later in his native world, a company that, following its appropriation of Fleming-Monroe at the dawn of the 21st Century, would come to be known as Massive Dynamic.

In those early days, he developed considerable influence, amassing wealth and connections in a short time. Yet while he enjoyed satiating his ambition in the domains of business and science, he never forgot why he traveled there to begin with, and his vigilance inevitably bore fruit. Quite soon – in the span of a few years, far sooner than Bell had anticipated – they revealed themselves to him, offering him a position in their fledgling operation.

Naturally, he posed as one of them, earning their favour by providing them unadulterated access to his intellect and wealth, and the three of them formed the GDC, quickly stocking their ranks with those loyal to their cause. What enjoyment he derived in the scientific breakthroughs achieved here were soured by how they would be come to be used, but absolute commitment was necessary to perpetuate the subterfuge and avert prying eyes; he had no choice but to assist them in their projects, spearheading the design and production of the Second-Generation Hybrids, whose success had cemented him as an indispensable asset.

If only he had known how powerful these people truly were.

As the years unfolded, he traveled back to his native world as often as he could, and after forming ZFT in 1993, he would relay key developments in the GDC's plans to them; but in time, his ability to transmit this information became impaired by the toll repeated crossings inflicted upon his body, as well as the increasing sophistication of communications technology on the Other Side, gradually diminishing the convenience of travelling in secrecy until he was no longer to supply information back home in consistent fashion, and all successful communiqués became so rare as to be almost miraculous.

They were as suspicious of him as he of them. Despite being a vital member in their undertaking, he was constantly being kept under surveillance. Even now, he could feel their rapacious eyes all around him, hounds wary of the foreign undertones in his scent. He was playing a dangerous game, he knew, a game made more dangerous by the fact that this wasn't the only world that rested upon his chessboard.

They were all but pawns in his match against time.

He had founded ZFT as a counter-measure to possible otherworldly retaliation – a retaliation he was complicit in – so as to give his native world an advantage and even the odds; yet knowing what he knew now, it was hard not to succumb to disillusionment. He could not have known that Walter's violation of the integrity of nature was only a spark that re-ignited tensions decades old. He could not have known the extents of the GDC's plans for Bell's native reality, plans he aided through the perfection of the Harvesters and the Titans.

And he could not have known that he would grow weary of wearing the self-appointed role of arbiter in the Silent War, forestalling potential destruction of either world for as long as it would be necessary.

There wasn't a morning where did not wake with the same question on his mind.

Was it all for naught?

The only thing that kept him going was the deal he had made with Weiss and his people, a partnership formed long before he began crossing over. The man whose current guise was Samuel Weiss had visited him on a few occasions over the years; never once looking a day older than when he'd seen him last, he would consistently assure Bell that he would be rewarded for his efforts to keep things in check for them, and that their deal still held.

_Soon_, he would say, as though a mantra. _Soon_.

He understood why they had to do it, why there could be no other way. But as delicate an operation as it was, he often wished they would hurry things up. He was still waiting after all these years; he had not heard from Weiss in almost a decade, and wasn't getting any younger. When would the time come? When would _soon_ at last become _now_?

A sudden fit of coughing surged through him, the air in his office becoming unbearably thin. He stumbled to his desk, fumbling for his oxygen tank. The moment he applied the mask to his face and inhaled, his breath returned to him, and he sank into his chair in relief, knowing all the while that any respite would only be temporary. The effects of repeated crossings in his earlier years were just now catching up to him, the price for exploiting the lesser-known secrets of nature. He was now effectively stranded in an alien world, and crossing back, while possible, proved too fraught with risk in his frail condition. And even after the regular crossings had stopped, the very air of the parallel universe was eroding his being; for as an anomalous entity, he would never be in perfect sync with his environment. Even now, he would periodically be struck with time slips that left gaps in his awareness of observed reality. Not to mention the weariness that age brought with it. He would not last forever at this rate; time was running out.

A storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones.

But it didn't matter. When Weiss and his people had their way, there would be no more need for these futile war games.

At that moment, a series of pings – three sets of three – resounded in rapid succession from a small speaker affixed to the upper corner of the room. Knowing it could only mean one thing, he rose from his seat and sauntered to the other side of his office. The room was furnished with many paintings and artifacts and antiques procured in auctions and private sales over the decades – his wealth permitting him to indulge in his taste for weathered things – but there was one section in particular that drew his interest. In an indented portion of the walls was found a bookshelf, taking up most of the space save an exposed section of wall to the right, which ended where a column jutted out.

He removed a copy of Paradise Lost from the third shelf and slid his index over a concealed biometric scanner on the underside of the fourth shelf, and his identity recognized, the indented portion of the wall slid to the right, retracting behind the column, revealing an entryway that Bell promptly entered.

He pressed a button on the wall to close the door behind him. The small room, which was lit by a dim overhead light, contained nothing but a chair, a table, and what was by current technological trends a fossil of a computer. Upon seating himself, he glanced at the bulky monitor, whose green letters displayed a single line of text.

_POTEST FORTASSE TENEO QUATENUS POSSUNT VADO_

With a detachment that suggested the activity was a routine affair, he typed the appropriate response:

_POTEST FORTASSE TENEO QUATENUS POSSUNT VADO_

_TANTUM QUI PERICULUM IENS QUOQUE RECEDENTIA_

Upon pressing the _Enter_ key, a long string of code flashed on the screen, ending in a new message:

_INCOMING TRANSMISSION [SENT 21/02/09 AT 8:47PM 83% ALTSYNC]. ENTER PASSWORD TO PROCEED. _

He had debated whether placing an additional password requirement was perhaps too much, but he figured that given his situation, his paranoia was justified; one could never be too careful, especially here. He entered the password, and the message was relayed onto the black background in jade lettering.

_Hello, William._

_Ordinarily, I would have sent you status reports on our ongoing projects, but something far more pressing has come up. It would seem that David Jones has escaped from his recent imprisonment at Wissenschaft prison. He has called our offices several times now, demanding to speak with you. We've tried to resolve the matter, but he's becoming increasingly harder to deal with. _

_What worries me most is that he has expressed his intentions to cross over and kill you. _

_I'm very concerned for your safety, William. I know you and Jones haven't always seen eye to eye, but I can't imagine what would cause him to suddenly act this way. Whatever the case may be, we both know what Jones is capable of, and he will stop at nothing to achieve his goals. I know you can't reply to these messages anymore - and sometimes, I wonder if you even receive them - but I implore you to take precautionary measures in the event Jones succeeds. I would ask the ZFT Captains to assist, but they have their hands full with North Woods and the First Wave; and since it would be unwise for Massive Dynamic to get involved, we can only hope that Fringe Division takes notice of Jones' further activities and tries to stop him themselves._

_On the subject of Fringe Division, you should know that Jones has contacted Olivia Dunham, and has potentially activated her. She recently came to me, asking about Cortexiphan, and she now knows about her involvement in the Jacksonville trials. It seems that Jones is still interested in ZFT recruitment methodology, but I fear that he may try to use Olivia to his own ends. We will keep an eye on her, just to be safe. _

_Prepare yourself for anything. In the meantime, I will do what I can on my end. _

_Stay safe,_

_Nina._

Bell slouched back into his chair with a long sigh, deleting the message as he did with every other, erasing all traces of its existence. In a world where digital channels were always being watched by _someone_, analog technologies provided the only secure method of communication. The old computer, the physical alarm relay, the security implementations; all of it to prevent interception of his activities.

The archaic computer system configured to receive reports from Nina was connected to a similar one over at Massive Dynamic. Over the years, however, the disproportional rate of decay in the two universes made replying to Nina's messages increasingly difficult, until one day, the channel began to operate only one way, outgoing messages on Bell's end proving impossible to send due the Other Side's worsening state.

It would have been far easier to employ quantum entanglement in the matter of inter-reality communication, as did the GDC with their Selectric typewriter network. Yet while it conveniently solved the problem of asymmetric degradation, the process of entanglement on macroscopic objects was so complex and precise in required execution that the only way to achieve it was by using GDC equipment, and such an endeavour posed far too many risks to implement at that point; knowing them, they would have suspected something before he even began.

So as much as it pained him, he would be unable to reply to Nina's message. But if he could respond, he would have told her to do nothing.

Let him come, he thought; there were more pressing matters to tend.

But his annoyance faded as sudden remorse overcame him. How wished he could apologize to Jones for having taken him under his wing, only to disillusion him with promises that he was unable to keep; to Allie, for forcing her to leave him in this world when all she wanted was to stay at his side; to Walter, whose friendship he had often taken for granted, and who he had abused in his quest to subjugate the fates of twin worlds to his whims.

To Nina, for making things so hard for her.

He rubbed his wearied eyes, shaking his head. There was no use in dwelling in the past when the future called.

Upon returning to his office from the hidden chamber, the door to which left no hint of its existence upon closing, he resumed staring out the window pane, observing a languid Glatterflug Zeppelin docking itself at the Empire State Building. Two parallel universes, both just as real as the threat they posed to one another.

It would indeed be a battle for survival, but it was not a battle either side could win.

There could be no avoiding it, of course; and as heated as things were now, it was nothing compared to what was to come. All this time, the pieces were merely being put into place, and only now were the opening moves being made.

The _real_ war – the Silent War – had only just begun.

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PULLING THE STRINGS

Part III: The Coming War

By Uroboros75


	2. Chapter 1: The Same Coin

Chapter 1: The Same Coin

Spring was coming, the most recent solstice in the cycle of seasons to be recorded into his memory.

The wind hushed promises of renewal as it breezed past September, who sat on a bench in Franklin Park, watching the pond's surface shiver with ripples. He might have existed for millennia, but the seasons continued to intrigue him, particularly in the rhythmic way they faded into one another; a linear progression, yet cyclical also, forging ahead on nature's Möbius Strip. Seasons changed, human society changed; everything around him was in a perpetual state of flux.

But he would always remain the same.

It was due to his inherent impartiality to this change, he knew, allowing him to see things from the outside in. Yet as he departed the park he had been frequenting over the course of the last century, he wondered if this was a desirable state of being, for things were changing too quickly for his liking, and his detachment merely served to make such changes all the more apparent.

The Witness roamed the sidewalk. There were no pressing Events to observe, and for this he was pleased. It had become difficult to accurately alter Events to their specified outcomes when he constantly had to account for a variable that could not be determined, one that could at any time surface without warning and lead things astray.

The Guardians.

There had been times where his mind would lapse onto the image of these hidden, undetectable opponents, after which he would have to promptly correct himself, just barely managing to regain his focus and nudge the given Event back onto its intended path. And with the Gemini Protocol in constant effect, there were moments where he found that his hand would drift to the pocket where his Pulse Pistol was concealed without his conscious awareness, as though it had a mind of its own. If only he could observe them, as he observed all things; perhaps then, his mind would cease to dwell upon such distressing thoughts.

For unobserved, they were everywhere and nowhere, near and far, all at once, specters of possibility that followed him wherever he went.

After purchasing a dozen chilli peppers at a market stand, he made his way to a promenade that longed the banks of the Charles River. Humans walked at varying paces to and fro, their temporal precursors undulating about him; he could perceive their disturbed expressions before they physically manifested, watching the strange man devour the scalding peppers in swift succession.

It was then that he saw him.

In the corner of his eye, there was a figure which was unlike the others; there was no temporal precursor to his movements, and neither could he intuit his presence, which meant that the figure was, like him, only partially bound by the Equation. He maintained his pace, time slowing down in his perception as his mind raced.

_...Could it be?_

He pivoted his head, poised to whip out his pistol.

As he turned, the individual's suit and fedora came into view.

September eased himself at this sight of his fellow Crépuscule Division colleague, who stood on the street overlooking the promenade, and the Witness went to meet him.

July was surveying the scene with his specs when September accosted him.

"Greetings, July," said September as his associate lowered his binoculars.

"September," he replied. "I did not see you."

He resumed peering through the specs.

"Are you observing an Event?" asked September. "I do not wish to be a disturbance."

"I am not occupied at the present time," said July. "I am simply...watching."

Curious, September mentally followed the line of sight given by the angle of his partner's binoculars; he found that they were fixed on a pair of humans on the promenade, one of which was male, and the other, female. The Witness retrieved his own specs to observe the objects of interests with greater clarity.

"Who are they?" asked September.

"The female is called Rebecca Stone," he said. "And the male is called Daniel Thompson."

"Are they important? Are they Subjects?"

"No. But they are connected to one."

July lowered his specs; he turned to address September, who continued to observe the pair as they hunched on the railing and looked out at the river as they spoke.

"I think...I think I may have made a mistake."

September ceased his reconnaissance, head veering to his colleague's.

_A mistake?_

"What do you mean?"

July's eyes wandered back upon Rebecca and Daniel as he recounted his tale.

"I was tasked to observe Emmanuel Grayson as he and his colleagues destroyed a GDC Titan production facility in Watertown. When they emerged, Daniel Thompson had spotted me, and sought to apprehend me. I attempted to evade him by escaping to a nearby alleyway, but he was faster than I had anticipated, and he observed me before I could depart. I had no choice but to subdue him with my pistol so that I could escape."

A short gust blew past, causing all but the two Witnesses to cringe from the cold.

"I am uncertain as to how this poses a problem," he asked. "You pursued the only available option at your disposal. How is that a mistake?"

"Emmanuel Grayson is a Subject, but Daniel Thompson is not," explained July. "He asked me why I was interested in him, and I told him that he was not the individual of my interest; I only realized the potential repercussion of my words after I had pronounced them."

It was then that September understood the cause of July's concern. When it came to interactions with Subjects, the Witnesses were forbidden to reveal any information pertaining either to the Witnesses or to Subject's status as an important target, as how they would act upon such information could not be accurately predicted. Through his connection to Emmanuel, Daniel Thompson may influence Grayson with information he is not supposed to possess, and while the Directive was currently unfolding within acceptable parameters, there was no telling what effect July's actions might have in time.

"What did you do after?" asked September.

"I informed him that I had said too much, and that I am not supposed to get involved, after which I shot him, rendering him incapable of observing me as I took to the RLTB."

They watched as Rebecca placed her hand on Daniel's shoulder.

"September, you have dealt with mistakes before," said July. "What course of action would you recommend?"

The Witness had not anticipated the question; vexed, he gazed into space for some time, receding into his own mind.

"I do not foresee your actions causing us much trouble in times to come," he said at last. "As it stands, you did not divulge much. And even then, they cannot expect to accomplish much with what they think they may or may not know. However, it would be best to pay closer attention to the activities of Emmanuel Grayson and those close to him from this point onward."

"...Yes. You are right. I will be sure to watch them closely."

July then took his specs and continued his observation of the Liberation Front members as they set off down the promenade. Only when they were out of sight did the Witness collapse his binoculars.

"Shall we walk?" offered July.

September accompanied his fellow Witness across the street and into the city. First March, now July; he had the presentiment that the Witnesses were beginning to falter in their discipline. It was his fault, of course. Had he not made that mistake in 1985, the circumstances that allowed his comrades to stray would never have arisen.

The pair walked for some time, no words being exchanged. While waiting for the signal at a crosswalk, however, July spoke, voicing the thoughts that had been occupying both of their minds.

"Have you seen any?"

"No. Have you?"

"No."

Such had become a common exchange among the Witnesses in recent times, becoming as routine as greetings. And it always ended the same way, with either Witness relating perceived absence of Guardians.

Yet in their absence, their presence somehow became that much stronger.

As the Crépuscule Division agents observed with curiosity mannequins modeling female lingerie in a boutique's window, they contemplated the intent of their adversaries with no small amount of unease.

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* * *

Isaac Winters was only in it for the money.

When his old associate Sanford Harris approached him around a year ago, he wasn't expecting to be introduced to a secret war and individuals with crazy powers. He quickly adjusted, however, when Sanford's unseen employer – What was his name? Reinhardt? – had secured them sizeable pay for their efforts. They could throw anything at him. Flying pigs, talking dogs, leprechauns and fairies; so long as he was paid – and paid _well_ – he would gladly assist in _activating_ these so-called Cortexiphan subjects.

But as he sat at a table in a dingy room of a rundown apartment complex, he began to reassess his prior willingness to have plunged headfirst into a world of which he knew so little.

He had been contacted by these men a week ago, where a man speaking in eerie cadence made an enticing offer over the phone. But were they even men? That was the question he asked himself as he stared at his host. He was pale, bald, and his eyebrows were absent, leaving only smooth ridges. He wore a sort of leather trenchcoat; the upper portion was tight against his torso, held in place by silver buckles.

Mister Sunday, he called himself. An odd name for an odd man.

He stood rigid, arms folded behind his back as he spoke.

"You must be wondering why we brought you here," said Mister Sunday. He took Isaac's silence as encouragement to continue. "We have had our eye on you for some time now, Mister Winters. My employer – Mister Holiday – is interested in your work, and wishes to lend his assistance."

_Mister Holiday_.

It was a name he had heard before, a name that was always spoken with hushed tones and paranoid eyes. According to Sanford and his other associates, Mister Holiday was an important player in the Silent War; and yet, nobody knew his agenda or whereabouts, let alone having ever seen him in the flesh.

Isaac swallowed, wondering why a man so apparently powerful would be interested in him.

Mister Sunday rested his hands on the unoccupied chair facing his client.

"Why choose me?" asked Winters, trying to mask his intimidation. "I'm just a lowly employee. Wouldn't it be in your best interest to speak with my superiors?"

"Mister Holiday had you in mind from the start," said Sunday. "He recognizes your devotion to the cause. Recognizes your... _potential_."

His host finally took a seat. As though a signal, Mister Sunday's associate – a similarly hairless man, wearing a black longcoat over a suit and piercings on his face and ears – approached the table from the corner he had been standing in the whole time, bringing with him a suitcase. The man opened the case, turned it to his superior, then receded to the side once more. Sunday proceeded to remove a folder, which he opened, spread some files contained within with accompanying photographs before Winters on the table.

_Nicholas Lane. Owen Grey. Susan Pratt. Nancy Lewis. _

"We know how difficult it can be to track down Cortexiphan subjects," explained Sunday, "so we have decided to give you a nudge in the right direction."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Our respective employers share common interests, Mister Winters."

Winters eyed Sunday with suspicion. The man was impossible to read, his bald features bearing no expression. And yet, he could feel the man reading him like an open book, his eyes piercing the soul; the other shared those same eyes, ones that knew far more than he could ever dream of.

As the other man took the files and replaced them in the case, Sunday spoke.

"Consider what this opportunity might mean for you," he explained. "How do you think your superiors will react when you approach them with the whereabouts of several Cortexiphan subjects? Competence is a virtue in this game. You will be recognized for your value. Perhaps you will be able to climb the ranks and become someone of greater importance. Prestige, wealth, influence; these are things we know are of interest to you. And, if you should require further incentive..."

At that, Sunday's colleague brought another briefcase to the table, this one opening to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

The offer suddenly seemed much more enticing.

"You've got yourself a deal," said Winters in moments, eyes almost twinkling at the sight of the briefcase's contents. What did he have to lose?

"Good," said Sunday.

Sunday's associate prepared both briefcases for their client, placing them at the side of the table. Sunday rose, and Winters followed suit. As Winters took the cases in hand, he turned to Sunday.

"So what do you want me to do after I activate these people?" he asked.

"Oh, we do not intend on ever seeing you again, Mister Winters. Do not expect us to contact you. Know, however, that we will continue to monitor your progress closely. Pleasure doing business."

Winters took Sunday's ensuing silence as his cue to leave; he therefore exited the room, disbelieving his luck, not caring to see if they would follow him.

Once the echoes of his footfalls on the staircase faded, Saturday approached Sunday.

"That went well," he noted.

"Yes," said the Warden. "Come, the others are waiting."

The two Guardians shot up, phasing through the ceiling, using each floor as a platform to ascend to the next. In moments, they reached the rooftop of the dilapidated building, where Wednesday and Thursday were working together to keep a hacky sack aloft with their feet. Upon seeing their comrades, they stopped their game, Wednesday launching the sack into the air with his foot to swipe it with ringed fingers, placing it in a pocket of his longcoat.

"Are you sure you required Saturday's attendance?" asked Thursday. "We could have already departed by now."

"None of the others were available," explained Sunday. "You know there must always be at least two of us while meeting with Clients."

Following the briefing on the Beacon assignment, the Caretaker had been spending the last few weeks redistributing their pending assignments to the other Guardians to account for the absence of those chosen for the Beacon's search. During the final tweaking, changes in events had forced Saturday to delay the departure by attending a Client meeting, in which the Guardians would supply information or technology to select players in the Silent War as part of their efforts to fuel it from behind the scenes.

"Do you all have your compasses?" asked the Warden of the Brotherhood.

The three Guardians took out their compasses; their needles were all dormant.

"You will go to Australasia, in the world of Coagula," said Sunday. "The precise coordinates have been sent to your Coms. When you reach the Beacon's original sending point, your compasses will become saturated with its residual frequency, and will point you in the right direction."

"Can we not simply follow its trail from where it emerged at New York?" asked Wednesday.

"The Beacon burrowed back into the ground at Kings Cemetery in Boston," said Thursday. "The frequency went cold after it left. We do not know where it has gone following its departure."

"Which is why we must retrace the Overseer's steps, starting from the point where he last sent it," said Sunday. "Make haste. Any residual frequency that still remains fades with every passing moment."

The Warden of the Brotherhood brought his right fist to his left shoulder, and the three others did the same.

"Good luck, my brothers. And be careful."

With that, the three Guardians turned and walked to the edge of the roof, where they propelled themselves with great speed into the distance, quickly fading from view as they hopped across the rooftops. Sunday watched as his comrades became nothing but black dots in the skyline. The Guardians had never been closer to having a chance to unravel the Overseer's plans; it was invigorating to think that his misguided efforts may soon be put to an end.

With a final glance into the overcast skies, the Guardian Tunnelled downward, letting himself fall through the roof's surface.

It would only be a matter of time before things finally began to fall into place.


	3. Chapter 2: Special

Chapter 2: Special

The black Bentley rolled down the street, obsidian coat sparkling in the pallid winter sun. As they made a right turn, the driver spoke.

"What do you think this child will be like?" he asked.

"I cannot say," replied the passenger. "It appears we are dealing with a child who possesses strong telepathic abilities and a curious energy signature. Who can know what to expect? Whatever the case may be, I suppose we will soon find out."

Upon receiving September's report of a strange child having been spotted in Boston almost two weeks past, the Overseer, now that an opening had appeared in their schedule, had finally been able to dispatch the Arbiter of the Crépuscule Division to retrieve him for further investigation. By analyzing the license plate numbers of the car the child had been travelling in, they had been able to trace the car's owner, as well as their address. It was thus that December make his way there in one of the many Bentley's belonging to the Witnesses-By-Proxy Network, November as its chauffeur.

They soon arrived at their destination, parking across the street from a modest house in Somerville, which they approached after exiting the vehicle. The pair faced the front door, where December rung the doorbell, and they waited for a few moments until a woman answered the call. She was a woman in her forties, brown-skinned with braided hair pulled back into a ponytail. She peeked out the door, partly to shield her body from the chill, but also due to the suspicion aroused by the sight of men in suits.

"Miss Joan Winick?" asked the suited man.

"Yes, that's me," she replied. "How can I help you?"

"I am Mister Wright, and this is my associate, Mister Morgan. We were wondering if we could have a moment of your time."

"A moment of my time? For what?"

"It has come to our attention that a certain child has come into your custody." She reflexively narrowed the space in the door a few inches, her concerns apparently validated, but the two men seemed to take notice. "I can assure that we bear no ill intentions," he added. "We merely wish to talk."

She paused to consider their offer; after all, they weren't the first group to have displayed an interest in the child in recent times. But they didn't seem hostile. Perhaps they could be trusted. At the very least, their message deserved to be heard.

"Please, come in," she said, allowing them inside.

Entering the house, Joan led them to the living room.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," she said. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps?"

"That will not be necessary," replied Mister Wright.

Wright placed himself in the recliner, whereas Mister Morgan chose to stand nearby. As Joan sat on the opposing couch, clasping her hands on knees, Wright removed his fedora and placed it on the coffee table, revealing his lack of hair follicles; Morgan did the same, holding his hat to his navel, showing himself to be just as bald. Being a doctor, her mind couldn't help but to automatically diagnose his possible condition. Narrowing down the very short list of contenders, she eventually settled for _alopecia universalis_, an extremely rare affliction where the totality of hair on the body is lost. But the odds of such a disorder were one in one hundred thousand. What were the odds that two people working for the same organization would have developed the same condition?

What truly astonished her were the even smaller odds that they would happen to possess the same superficial appearance as the child that had been living in her home for the past few weeks.

"I don't recall you mentioning who you work for," she noted with concealed insinuation.

"Unfortunately, that is not something we are at liberty to discuss," answered Wright. "Suffice it to say that we represent the interests of a private, non-profit organization."

He spoke in a strange voice; it was devoid of inflection, of tone, and the rhythm was slow, pondered. But even if the voice lacked any markers that could give her hints as to his true intent, she still remained cautious at the mention that they would not discuss the nature of their work. She considered pressing the matter further, asking them for credentials, but she doubted they would be forthcoming, and thus changed the subject.

"So you said you had an interest in the child?"

She still didn't like saying it aloud. _The child_. The boy couldn't speak, so he couldn't tell her what his name was, if he even had any. She didn't want to impose a name upon him, either; and even if she wanted to, she had yet to think of a name that remotely suited him.

"Yes," replied Wright. "As I am sure you are aware, the child currently in your custody is special. Unique. It is for this reason that we are interested in him."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I understand," said Joan. "What is it that you want with him?"

"We have come to ask that you allow the child to come with us."

She froze; it was just as she had feared.

"I thought you said you had no ill intentions," she reminded with accusation, suddenly not too keen on having these men in her house.

"And I stand by my word."

"I can't just let you _take_ him!" she berated in hushed tones. "He's been through so much in so little time. A child like him needs a stable home – needs to be _cared_ for."

"You and I both know that this is no ordinary child," countered Wright.

It was true; the boy was a veritable mine of medical eccentricities. He was mute, and seemed to lack basic communication skills of any kind. Yet he seemed to understand everything she said – sometimes, he would carry out her requests before she could even _say_ them. And he didn't sleep, either, and barely ate a thing, even though it appeared to have little negative consequences on his health. But he wasn't only a medical mystery; there was something _more_ to this child, something that she could not quite define.

"We are just as concerned for the well-being of the child as you are, Miss Winick," explained Wright. "We can ensure that he is taken to a safe environment where his specific needs will be met. Because as I am sure you have realized by this point, he may not be able to lead a normal life."

The last sentence struck her hard. She couldn't believe it when they brought this child to the hospital. According to the FBI, he had been living underground for over seventy years, yet he appeared scarce over ten. How old was he, really? Would he ever mature to adulthood, or would he forever remain young, frozen in time? And was she even in a position to adequately care for him in the long run? She had to admit, it was already challenging; she would work long hours at the hospital, often relying on her neighbour to watch over him. And when she was home, she was often preoccupied with thoughts of what to do with him. Should she have him go to school, or be homeschooled? What about interacting with other children, or playing sports, or generally growing up? It was nice for the first few days, but two weeks into this arrangement, she was beginning to have some doubts as to her role in his path in life.

Even so, she wasn't willing to give up just yet.

"I don't know," she began. "I promised that I would look after him."

"I have no doubt of your tenacity," said Wright. "But I can assure you that this would be for the best."

She twisted her mouth.

"Well, I–"

She stopped when she saw the men look to the doorway at the end of the living room. He was standing there, hand resting on the entryway's frame. Pale skinned, devoid of hair, wearing clothes that once belonged to her son, who was now a university student; a sight in equal parts odd and endearing. Putting on a smile, she addressed him.

"Hey there," said Joan. "What is it, big guy?"

The boy didn't seem to take notice of her presence; rather, he continued to stare wordlessly at her guests, who stared back, just as impassive. Joan then knew in that single moment that there was a connection between these people, something that was possibly greater than she would ever be able to fathom.

Perhaps... perhaps it would be for the best after all.

She rose up from her seat, approaching the boy.

_Who?_

_I am Mister Wright. This is Mister Morgan._

_Mister? Reed?_

_Yes. We are associates of Mister Reed._

Joan knelt before him, rubbing his small arms.

"Listen," she began. "These two nice gentlemen are here to bring you somewhere. Take you somewhere wonderful and safe. A new home."

_Home? Know home?_

_If you come with us, we can help you find your home, yes. _

"But you don't have to go anywhere you don't want to go," she continued. "You can stay here, if you want. But if you want to go, you can do that, too."

He looked at her, then to the men, before nodding.

"You want to go?"

He nodded once more, finalizing his decision. He then approached the men, leaving Joan where she knelt. The child came to a stop before Wright, who had risen from his seat.

_Are you certain of your decision?_

_Yes...Will go. See Reed?_

_We shall see. For now, you should say your goodbyes to Miss Winick. _

The boy turned around. Joan inched closer, clasping her hands; her face was a conflict of tenderness and anxiety, both borne of motherly instincts. Yet before she could even speak, the child was upon her, ensnaring her in his arms and burying his face into her abdomen. After the initial surprise subsided, she reciprocated in full, holding him snug in her embrace; it was more difficult than she had anticipated to part from him when their affectionate clinch had run its course.

Then he looked up at her with one of those rare, timid smiles that melted her heart, and she could not help but smile as well.

"Well, if this is really what you want," she said. Joan addressed Wright. "So, when is he supposed to leave?"

"We were actually intending to bring him now."

"_Now_?" Her mouth was agape. "But... but what about all the necessary preparations? I mean, we'd have to sort out the appropriate paperwork, and –"

"We will see to it that these matters are taken care of," said Wright. "You need not worry about a thing."

She sighed inwardly in relief, her momentary stress subsiding, though Wright's words did not make things any easier.

"Well, if he has to leave right now, we'd better get his things ready," she noted. As though on cue, the boy made his silent way up the stairs to his assigned bedroom, the one he didn't sleep in. "Uh, we'll be back shortly, gentlemen. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

They watched as Joan pursued the child up the stairwell; when they had passed out of sight, November addressed the Arbiter.

"He does not seem to have mastered telepathic communication. He was broadcasting his thoughts without discipline. And that presence..."

"He is only partially bound to the Equation," said December, completing his colleague's thoughts. "Just as we are."

"Are you suggesting that this child is of us? How can that be, when there are but twelve Witnesses?"

"I am not ready to suggest anything, yet," said December. "We will know more when we have the opportunity to properly examine him. But it is disconcerting; while he does possess a degree of impartiality, I have the distinct sense that it is less so than our own."

November's eyes widened. "Do you think he might be one of _them_? The Guardians?"

"I do not know," responded December gravely. "The Overseer did say that they were created using an imperfect replica of the Beacon, and that the degree of their impartiality is lesser than ours as a result. Whatever this child is, I suppose the Overseer will be the one able to determine the nature of his present state."

A symphony of footfalls and creaking steps announced Joan and the child' return, the latter carrying a backpack decorated with a race car motif.

"Oh, I should probably get you some snacks in case you get hungry on the road," said Joan.

"That will not be necessary, Miss Winick," assured Wright. "We will ensure that all of his needs are met."

"Oh... alright, then."

Joan proceeded to outfit the boy with a warm coat and baseball cap, adjusting them with meticulous care.

"I guess you're all set, then."

She embraced him again. How did she ever become so attached to this sweet little boy in so short a time?

With great reluctance, she guided him to the suited men. Mister Morgan took over, ushering the boy out the door, where Mister Wright followed. Joan placed herself at the doorsill, leaning against it while cradling herself with her arms to combat the cold, still a bit overwhelmed with this sudden parting.

The child stopped on the cobblestone walkway, looking back to Joan; in his eyes, she saw something, some wordless message which told her everything she needed to know.

_...I'll be fine. _

"He is in good hands," said Mister Wright.

"I know," she said with a smile made bitter by the separation to come. "You be safe now, you hear?"

The child nodded, and the three of them were on their way to the black Bentley parked across the street. Joan watched them leave, the child peering back at her from the back seat while the vehicle left, until he was gone for good.

"It continues to impress me how well you interact with the humans," said November as he drove.

"It is a learned skill, and I have many years of experience," replied December, who was sitting in the back this time, the boy at his side. "Even so, I nonetheless viewed a few films depicting similar scenarios in preparation for this event."

The child continued to stare out the window, arching back until the house was out of view, after which he aligned himself forward.

_See her?_

December turned his head to look at the boy.

_One day, perhaps._

_Where now?_

_We are going to visit an associate. I am sure you will find him agreeable. _

The Arbiter resumed staring ahead as the child continued to peer out the window, watching the scenery shift while thinking of a home whose face and name he could not remember.


	4. Chapter 3: Setbacks

Chapter 3: Setbacks

He knew that it would be hard to save the world.

But not this hard.

The skies were overcast that day, one of many that had characterized the winter season. Crow found himself drifting without aim on a walkway bordering the Charles River. He had taken many such walks as of late; the expenditure of energy and the harrowing frost helped numb the mind. It had been almost over a month since their victory at the secret Titan incubation facility. But was it really a victory against the First Wave, or merely a minor setback in their plans? He had the nagging sense that it was the latter.

The year's holiday period proved far more eventful than those in Dan's recent memory. At Becca's suggestion, the group held a Secret Santa exchange. Dan, who had picked Druid's name from Spock's scale Stormtrooper helmet, bought his recipient a Starcraft-themed mug. Meanwhile, Dan received the first couple of issues of the Sojourner Chronicles from Spock, who secured them cheap through employee discounts at Larsen Comics; he had explained with his typical fanatic fervor that if Dan was going to read any comic series, that this cult favourite was the one.

As for the New Year, Polaris had absented herself to visit some family in Vermont, so it was just the boys, beer, and baseball at Druid's place. As a whole, the festivities had been oddly, well, _festive_, with laughter, banter, and general camaraderie to be found in droves. Yet no one was able to fully enjoy themselves, for a pall clung to the air and in the back of their minds, darkening the mood, and no one had been willing to openly acknowledge the fact.

Gary's death had placed a great burden on them all. His body was lost in the wreckage, so no official burial could be conducted. Despite this, the Liberation Front had chosen to gather in vigil. Yet as much as Dan had wanted to say something, a tribute to their fallen ally, he couldn't bring himself to speak a word.

None were surprised that this burden had fallen the hardest on their leader. In the restless nights that had haunted Dan since the incident, he had been afflicted with remorse, questioning his competence and ability to lead; and what sleep he did have was replete with nightmares. The grudge he held against the Shapeshifters only made things worse, as the Front had yet to pick up any definite signs of First Wave activity, and so he had nothing at which to direct his anger and helplessness but himself.

He had also visited his mother during the holidays. He made it a habit to see her every now and again, as she lived by herself in an apartment building out in Lexington, having long since stopped trying to find herself a man; as she often quipped, so long as she had Dan, she would need no other man in her life. His visit was well received, as Sheryl Thompson was always pleased to see her son. But as was the wont of all mothers, she was concerned about the state her son's health. It was clear by the haggard look and tired eyes that he was not getting much sleep, and his grim state of mind managed to seep through the thin cracks of the cheerful facade he put on for her sake.

She had asked him if he was alright, just as everyone else had been doing lately; and every time they did, he would inform them that he was just fine.

And he was fine – so he reminded himself once more – as he strode on the riverside promenade.

"Hey, Dan!"

His head perked up at the sound of a familiar voice, whose emitter bridged the distance with a light jog.

"Rebecca?" said Dan as she approached. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

The pair moved to the railings on the side, leaning against them while watching as the Charles carved its path to the sea. Polaris wore a blue coat, a red scarf enveloping her neck; her freckled cheeks had been refrigerated to a warm pink. Dan was roughly ten years her senior, but he nonetheless recognized that she was a pretty young girl.

"So, _Crow_." She made a brief pause, wiping a lock of auburn hair from her face. "You know, I've been meaning to ask you why you chose that name."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You first," he retorted.

Cornered, she smirked.

"Alright," she said, turning her eyes to the river. "I'm sure you know that Polaris is the northern star. I've always been drawn to stars and planets; it's probably why I'm studying astrophysics at MIT. And why I dig New Age stuff."

"Astrophysics, huh? That's pretty cool."

"Sure is. Okay, your turn."

Without batting a lash, he answered, fixated to the distance.

"It's my online username."

"Well gee, mine's _Polaris_. Come on, Crow. There's got to be more to it than _that_."

He sighed.

"If you _must_know," he began after a few moments, trying to sound interesting, "crows are associated in many cultures with death. Given my interest in the paranormal and the occult... the choice was a no-brainer."

Even before he had finished the sentence, his features darkened, and he turned his sights to the river with brooding complacence, thinking how apt a name it was; he was indeed a crow, with death as his shadow, following him wherever he went.

He could see the worry plastered upon her face; her lips parted, wanting to speak, saying nothing. The air grew heavy and still. They both knew where the conversation was heading, yet neither was willing to embrace the inevitable. Even so, Polaris, after great reluctance, dove into the treacherous waters, daring to brave the cold.

"It wasn't your fault, you know."

"Is that right?" he said. "Well, you be sure to tell him that when you see him again."

Rebuffed by his detached sarcasm, Rebecca's eyes fell.

"You can't blame yourself over this forever, Dan. The circumstances of his death were outside of your control."

"This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't left him down there by himself." His hands tightened to fists. "I screwed up. That's all there is to it."

Dan clenched his jaw. Rebecca also tensed, but for different reasons; Dan's stubborn refusal to climb from the pit he had dug for himself, while understandable, made for no less an exasperating sight.  
"You're not the only taking this hard, Dan," she reminded him. "We've all been down in the dumps since that night. But we need someone to keep the Liberation Front together, now more than ever. Whether you know it or not, every member of this team looks up to you, and we're all counting on you to lead the way."

He had always figured that, being the leader of group, the others would perceive him as such, with all the qualities that came with the position; but it he never really thought much of it until he heard it just then from Rebecca. Yet he wondered if their trust in him was misplaced, for the only leading he was apparently capable of doing was the kind that led people down roads ending in blood and sorrow.

Polaris detected this doubt, but that was not what interested her; for a moment, she saw something in Crow's eyes, a faint spark the likes of which she had not seen for quite some time. That ember of determination, of strong will, the thing that, when he was stripped to his core, would be all that remained of his being, was something she did not want to lose. But as it faded into the abyss, she pushed forward.

"Becca –" protested Dan.

"No!" Her lips were pressed in a pout. "You can wallow in self-loathing all you like, but it's not fair to the rest of us to have you give up like this. We're either all in this together, or none of us are." The brief, stern anger subsided, and she sighed, seeming to regret her outburst. "If we give up now, they win," she said in a softer tone. She placed a hand on her shoulder; he shifted his head, partially acknowledging her. "Besides, we have to continue forward, or the Watchdog's death will have been in vain."

It was the last part that struck a chord.

He had been so absorbed in punishing himself for his own shortcomings that he had neglected to acknowledge the one who he had failed. How the Watchdog must have been be shaking his head with disappointment from in the grave he currently shared with fallen beasts. Were he there at the promenade in the flesh, he'd probably wipe his hair to the side and look at him with his squinty eyes and aloof smile.

_...it's been an honour serving with you thus far, Crow. _

Everyone else believed in him; he wasn't sure if he was ready to do the same, but he figured he might as well give it a try and see what came of it.

"...You're right," said Dan at length. "We gotta keep on going. For his sake, and for the sake of everyone else they've ever taken. The fight's not over until every last one of them is destroyed."

The ember in his eye sparked aflame, the light Polaris held in high regards piercing through the gloom, and she could not help but smile at the promise of Crow's return. He shared in her smile; it was faint, strained, as though the muscles in his face had atrophied, but it was a welcome sight nonetheless.

"... Hey, Becca?" said Dan, looking to the river.

"What?"

"...Thanks. I needed that."

"Good, because so did I," she replied. "Come on, let's ditch this place."

Polaris divorced herself from the railing, beckoning Crow along with her head, and he followed eagerly; the cold was seeping into him, and he had the strange paranoid feeling of being watched.  
His smile wavered in moments, however, as did the light in his eye.

"But what good is carrying onward if we can't even _find_them?" said Dan. "What few recon missions we've done since the Titan incident have given us nothing so far, and we haven't found any leads."

"Don't worry," said Polaris. "We'll think of something."

At that, he smirked.

"I don't think we'll have to," replied Crow. "With these guys, you know _something's_ bound to happen sooner or later."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

It was midmorning when they arrived at an auto repair shop in the Bronx, a locale which was to serve as their place of congregation. Given the highly sensitive material they were about to discuss, such a location seemed ill-suited to their purposes; but like many things in this world, this particular establishment was under their control.

The two of them entered in unison. For now, the tall male with a dirty blonde head was Adrian Barnes, and the shorter one with the crew cut was Kurt Lawson. The shop was abuzz with activity; between the cars being serviced, the tools and equipment and machinery sprawled about, and the cool air and the grit and grime that comprised the scene's aesthetic, they felt very much at ease in this place.

They approached another man who in life was known as Larry Weinstein, appearing as a balding man in his forties wearing glasses and a wedding band on his finger; he was discussing something with another employee when they approached him. Upon detecting his two new customers, he quickly wrapped up the conversation and sent the mechanic elsewhere.

"Welcome, gentlemen," said the man wearing a 'Larry' nametag on his uniform with a bright smile. "How can I help you?"

"We're looking to schedule an inspection for our Toyota Zenith."

At the mention of a double-decker model, a serious expression ghosted over the auto shop proprietor, but his cheery disposition never faltered.

"Sure thing, gentlemen," he said. "We're kind of booked for the next few days, though. Come with me to my office and we'll schedule a time for you to come in."

Larry led the two men through the thick of the shop, passing by several cars undergoing a variety of treatments, and down to a short corridor at the end of the building. The din of whirrs and clangs suddenly halved in intensity upon entering the office, and almost entirely upon closing the door. Larry contoured his desk while inviting his guests to sit, which they did.

"What's the situation?" asked Kurt.

"You guys hear about the incident in Watertown with the Titan Processing Plant?" inquired Larry as he unlocked a drawer to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room.

"Blew up, right?" chanced Adrian. "Some kind of random gas pipe explosion?"

"That's the one. Except it wasn't quite as random as we had first thought."

Larry extracted a folder sleeve fat with content before taking a seat at his office desk. With nonchalance, he flipped it open handed a series pictures to his fellow Hybrids, pictures hazily depicting armed individuals wearing dark clothing in what was once known as the Rickman Equipment and Supplies store.

"We were able to salvage optical data from the disks of the few bodies found in the rubble of the Rickman Equipment and Supplies store," said Larry. "It seems that a team of human operatives somehow snuck in and planted satchel charges where the Incubation Tanks were being stored, which would explain the traces of nitroglycerin we detected at the site."

"Infiltration and sabotage?" said Adrian.

"I thought that was _our _job," noted Kurt dryly.

"That's not all," said Larry, joining his fingers together upon placing his elbows on the desk surface. "A few weeks earlier, we discovered the wreckage of a V-nade detonation at Relay Station 0047, which we _also _thought was an accident."

He then passed additional photos, pictures also pulled directly from the eyes of disabled Hybrids in their last moments. Blurred faces that had appeared in the Titan facility picture set reoccurred, one a man with a greying beard, and the other, a younger man with brown hair, both of whom wore dark clothing and tuques.

"The dates on these pulls are from a few months ago," said Adrian. Why are we only finding out about this now?"

"Barely anyone ever passes by that Station," said Larry, shrugging. "We only found out about the detonation when one of our people happened to stop by there and witnessed the mess."

Adrian could only nod. The First Wave operation being fragmented by necessity, no one individual could keep track of the totality of their activities, and so it wasn't uncommon that things didn't immediately come to their awareness.

"I'm guessing these two are the ones who led the strike team at the Titan facility," deduced Kurt.

"Right you are." Larry reached into the file cabinet and handed a folder to each of them. "The bearded man is Emmanuel Grayson, a comic store clerk who lives in Malden. The other is Daniel Thompson, a convenience store worker from Somerset. We thought the Relay Station event was an isolated one, as was the appearance of these two; the optical data from the Titan facility proved otherwise."

Kurt and Adrian took a moment to sift through the contents of their respective folders, reviewing the information provided, both rather perplexed.

"They don't seem like ZFT," said Adrian. "Or anyone worth worrying about, for that matter."

"We've done some digging. Turns out Mister Grayson here runs a conspiracy website, and it's clear that these people know more on the First Wave than they have any business to. It seems like we're dealing with a case of misplaced vigilantism. Left unchecked, this might become a problem."

"How do you want to play this?" asked Kurt casually.

"Make it quick and clean. No need to drag the higher-ups into this."

Kurt and Adrian nodded and rose, sheathing their assignments in their coats. Larry closed the door behind them upon exiting the office, and the trio returned to the main shop.

"Have a nice day, gentlemen!" said Larry, playing his role with finesse.

Upon emerging into daylight, the two went in separate directions, melding seamlessly into the crowd as they have done countless times before and as they would continue to do until their operation decades in the undertaking would at last be complete.


	5. Chapter 4: Common Interests

Chapter 4: Common Interests 

"_**Activate Correspondence Protocol**_  
_**Location Sector Alpha-2 [42.335/-71.035/0.89]**_  
_**Time at 10:18:34 AM Local  
[Priority code 2718]"**_

September sat alone at a breakfast joint that morning, where he was orally assimilating eggs marinated in pepper and hot sauce, along with a side of bacon and tepid water. According to the assignment sent to his MultiCell, a Courier was to meet him there so as to deposit information for his review. The Witness could already foresee the Courier's arrival, and she would be arriving shortly.

He already knew what the briefcase he would receive contained, if the contents of the last few were of any indication. For some time now, the Overseer had tasked September to monitor the activities of David Robert Jones, who had recently teleported from his cell at Wissenschaft prison in Germany to the United States. The Witnesses had been interested in Jones' activities since his expulsion from ZFT, but their interest had peaked ever since he had activated Olivia Dunham's Cortexiphan-dependent abilities, by extension causing her significance as a Subject to increase.

Jones was but one of many individuals the League had been tracking in the times preceding the Collision. Their efforts were managing to push the moment of the Collision back by increments, but it appeared as though the rate of the Silent War's accelerating unfolding was increasing with every second the Witnesses bought, to the point where September began to wonder how long before their undertaking would become futile.

The Witness placed all these concerns aside, however, after his eyes drifted to a table near the window a few rows down, and to the woman who was sitting there.

The aura denoting otherworldly origin, the impenetrable mental barrier, a poorly defined temporal precursor; all attributes that instantly betrayed this woman's connection to Thomas Moroe and his group.

It was clear that she had been watching him for some time, for when he looked to her, she cringed, having been caught in the act. She then proceeded to sip her beverage and eye him with her emerald eyes; to any other, her stare might have been misconstrued as being awfully friendly, perhaps even flirtatious, but to September, it was anything but.

The Courier arrived, a woman in business apparel who set the briefcase on the vacant side of the table facing the Witness before exiting the restaurant and disappearing into the crowd outside. The woman down the way continued to watch him; he shot glances at her as he took the briefcase and unlocked it. He lifted it open to find a series of photographs taken by Proxy agents, showcasing Jones escaping from Boston General Hospital a few weeks past, as well as recent sightings of the man as he went about his business. It was just as he had anticipated.

Yet he did not anticipate that the woman would journey to the vacant seat before him. It was the clicking of her heels that alerted him to her presence, and he closed the open briefcase lid only to see her settle down.

"You don't mind if I sit here, do you?" she began. "I hope I wasn't making you uncomfortable back there."

She clasped her cup – containing what September could now see was tea – and took a sip. Her eyes almost glowed with a childlike curiosity, as though September was a marvel to be beheld. He could feel her mind reach out to him, prodding, probing, yet the strange sensation stopped in moments once the woman realized she could go no further.

"I'm terribly sorry for disturbing you like this, but I couldn't resist coming over," she said. "I've only heard stories of your kind, and to see a Witness in the flesh is... well, it's rather something." She suddenly redressed herself, as though snapping from a daydream. "Oh, goodness, where are my manners? My name is Esther Dei. What's yours?"

A pause.

"...I am Mister Reed."

She pouted.

"You don't seem too enthused to have me here."

And indeed, he was not. The terms of the apparent Pact the Witnesses held with these people crossed his mind, especially the part that concerned refraining from interfering with the other's business; that she would skirt that line in the sand was of particular concern.

"Why have you come here?" asked September. "It is my understanding that we are not supposed to get involved in one another's affairs."

"Oh, come now," said Esther. "Sure, our people are both bound by the Pact, but that's no reason not to _talk_, is it? And I figure since Tom broke the ice awhile back, it wouldn't hurt."

While September was no expert in determining the intent of humans – not the least ones so different from the norm – he had the sense that she was not a threat, and that her words were authentic. Seeing how eager she appeared, he wondered if he might be able to glean some more information on this woman – this Esther Dei – and those with whom she associated with.

He tried a tentative inquiry.

"Why have you not revealed yourselves until now?"

She did not seem to expect him to be so straightforward, pushing her chestnut hair behind her hair in slight vexation. Here, something happened that caught September's attention; she seemed to change for a brief second, her appearance shifting, proportions subtly skewered, only to return to normal as though nothing but a trick of the light.

"We've been around for a long time, Mister Reed," she began, "but we've naturally had to refrain from approaching your kind, what with the Pact and all. Of course, Tom couldn't have predicted that one fine day, he would walk into a bathroom to have a Witness waiting for him. Or that relatively soon after, he would cross paths with a few more on a subway train. I figure lightning would have struck him twice before something like that happened. You remember him, right? The one called Thomas Moroe?"

"Yes. I saw him at a bathroom at a coffee shop."

She nodded knowingly. "He's told me about you."

The Witness recalled his encounter with Moroe with great clarity, especially in the way he looked at him with those eyes filled with unspoken secrets.

Another question formed.

"Is Thomas the individual your people answer to?"

"Oh dear, no," replied Dei, flicking her wrist. "But he _is_ an important man. Very busy, too. Always on the move." She took another swallow of her tea, and her appearance skewed again, which the Witness found intriguing to no end. "My, you're quite the inquisitive fellow, aren't you? It's unfortunate that we're not allowed to discuss anything other than light pleasantries, because there are so many things I'd like to ask you."

She saw September's eyes narrow, and smiled to herself.

"Oh, it's nothing about your work or all that important business you Witnesses undoubtedly do," she clarified. "It's just... I want to know about _you_, Mister Reed." Again, that youthful sparkle in her eye, glinting much like the grapefruit-coloured gem encrusted in the pendant she wore. "I want to know about your dreams and your fears, of where you have been and what you have seen; I want to know _who you are,_ and learn everything there is to know about you."

There was a chime suddenly, originating from her purse. She removed her phone, and exasperation took her visage when she viewed the message.

"Already? We've been here for barely five minutes! Well, that's the universe for you. And there is so much left to be said. Tell you what; when this is all over, we'll come back to this very restaurant and reminisce. What do you say?"

"When what is over?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," she said hurriedly, gesturing about her as she gathered her things. "This whole silly thing we've all gotten ourselves sucked into. The Silent War, the degradation of our two worlds and the threat of their mutual destruction, all these different groups fighting and vying to realize their respective agendas; the whole shebang. Thankfully, it will all be ending soon enough."

She took her purse and rose to leave, but decided against it, and spoke before September had the chance to respond.

"Before I go, I do have _one_ question I'd like to ask, if that's fine by you. They say the one you serve – the Overseer – is a glorious being to behold, wreathed in an aura of gold; an _Angel of Light_, if you will. Are the stories true, Mister Reed?"

He paused. It was an odd question.

"I do not recall ever having perceived light emanating from the Overseer," he informed her.

She seemed disappointed.

"Oh... I see. Well, thank you for being so kind in having me, Mister Reed."

She rose from her seat, but to her surprise, so did Mister Reed, obstructing her path. He was not about to let her leave so soon, not without answers.

"What is it that your people are attempting to achieve?" he inquired.

Esther opened her mouth, caught off guard by September's abrupt actions. She changed again for an instant. The proportions in her face and body changed just a bit. And had she grown taller? But it was gone almost as fast as it came, and she resumed her ordinary form. He had observed such a phenomenon in Thomas Moroe before, and seeing it again made aroused his curiosity; the issue was not with his perception, as he had suspected, but with these humans. He had also seen the knowing smile she now gave him in Moroe as well, the one that made him ill at ease.

"We want the same thing you want, Mister Reed. To bring order to the chaos. It's just that we have a different approach. Now, I'm truly sorry, but I simply can't tarry any longer." She inclined her body forward by a slight degree. "Love and Light, my dear. May we meet again."

With haste, she headed to the door, making her way to whatever urgent matter had presented itself. September thought to follow her, but he decided against it, suspecting that, like Moroe, he would not be able to find her if he tried.

As he left the restaurant minutes later, briefcase at hand, he pondered the most troubling among her words.

_ It will all be ending soon enough._

Was she referring to the Collision? Has she foreseen that it would come to pass, and that the Witnesses would fail? Or was she referring to something else, something the Witnesses were yet to become aware of?

There was no telling. Either way, things were already unpredictable enough with the Guardians running about, and he wasn't too keen on having to deal with yet another opposing force to deal with. Or were Dei's people actually allies?

At least he knew what it was the Guardians desired; with the true agenda of Dei's people shrouded in mystery, September suddenly considered Esther's bright smile and grinning jade eyes to be far more unnerving than the ghost he once saw at Kings Cemetery.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Zachary Reinhardt was being followed.

For a soldier such as himself, with instincts sharpened to a point, detecting circumspect presences was a skill that one could not go without. He didn't look back, of course; that would let his stalker know that he or she was not in control anymore, which would be counterintuitive to his plan to lure his pursuer closer.

Like all the captains of ZFT, Zack liked to solve problems himself.

To this end, he turned into an alley, fleeing the open spaces of Manhattan's streets into narrower confines, places conducive to ambush. Around an alley's corner, he waited, prepared to assail whoever it was that was following him, hand floating to the back of his pants where his gun was wedged.

The moment the stalker emerged from around the corner, Zack held out his weapon with blinding speed, causing the other man to hold his hands up.

"Stay your hand, Zachary," the man said. "I just want to talk."

The voice chilled his spine.

"Jones?" said Zack, mightily surprised. "What the hell are you doing here? Last I heard, you were in prison."

"Well, not anymore, clearly," said Jones. "Please, put down the gun; it isn't quite the way to greet an old friend, now, is it?"

"I wouldn't exactly call you that," replied Zack, weapon still poised.

The rogue ZFT operative was always bad news, thought the captain of Tau Cell; he wondered what would drive Jones to seek him out in the twelve or so years since Zack saw him last.

"What do you want, Jones?"

"Your help."

At that, Zack lowered his gun, which Jones took as an invitation to drop his hands. There was something wrong with Jones; his skin was sickly and clammy in the dim light of the alley, and his breathing was congested and somewhat laboured. As Zack assessed the state of the man's health, Jones continued.

"I've stumbled onto something big, Zachary. Now, I know ZFT and I might have not seen eye to eye in the past, but we've always had the same interests at heart. What I've discovered might undermine everything we've both been working towards."

As much as Jones might be deluded, he never made grandiose claims without something to support them. Intrigued, Zack chose to give him a chance.

"And what terrible secret might this be?"

"I know who created the First Wave Hybrids."

Zack froze. Since the inception of their organization, they've been trying to determine the identities of their adversaries, to figure out who were the people orchestrating the First Wave. Could Jones have brought them the breakthrough they've been seeking?

"I'll give you three guesses," said Jones, smirking. Zack remained silent, brows burrowed in thought. "No? Oh, well."

Then Jones fell serious, and spoke with spite so acute it instilled Zack with dread.

"It's William Bell."

Several seconds elapsed before Zack grasped what Jones said, and several more before he realized what he was saying.

"...What?"

He blinked. Bell? The founder of ZFT, and the one who sacrificed everything to place himself behind enemy lines?

"I don't like what you're saying, Jones. Where did you learn this?"

"A few years back, my men and I have been able to procure ourselves the data disk from a Hybrid's body," recounted Jones. "Since then, we've been working hard to decrypt it, and when we finally did, we found evidence of Bell's role as their architect. I recently went to do some digging in Berlin, seeking to confirm my findings; Interpol wasn't too happy when they caught me knee-deep in state secrets pertaining to the Colder War, unfortunately for me."

"If that's true, then why would he do this?" asked Zack. "Bell wouldn't betray us. Not like this."

"Sleeping with the enemy can change a man, Zachary," said Jones. "The last person who saw him alive was Allie, and that was so very long ago. Think about it; he hasn't been making contact in ages. No one's been able to keep tabs on his activities. Although I suppose we now know what he's been up to all this time."

Zack gritted his teeth. Jones couldn't have come all this way just to lie to him outright; and the more he thought about it, the more credible the story sounded.

"There's no use in denying it, old friend. Bell has crossed us all, perhaps even from the very beginning."

Just as he finished speaking, a fit of wracking coughs seized him, and he messily spat out phlegm to the side.

"Are you alright?" asked Zack, slightly perturbed.

"The method of my escape from Wissenschaft was, shall we say... _unorthodox_," explained the former Zeta Cell captain, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "But don't worry; I'll be able to fix myself right up when I cross over."

Zack raised an eyebrow.

"Over _there_?" he said. "You intend on crossing over? You know how dangerous that is."

"Fret not, my dear," assured Jones. "I've devised a foolproof plan for safe passage into the great beyond."

While they understood the harmonic frequency principle the Hybrids used for inter-world transfer, it had far more adverse effects on humans, which is why ZFT didn't cross over, as they had yet to devise ways to fully overcome these repercussions; the North Woods Group had started sending their own human agents beginning about a decade ago, but that process was hardly more refined than the Hybrid approach, and it was more often fatal than not.

There _was_ one viable method in the harmonic frequency shift principle. But the reason Bell was stuck on the Other Side to start with was because he abused the method, chiselling at his health and molecular integrity over time; Allie still had migraines stemming from the early days when she served as Bell's inter-world agent, before she was told by Bell to remain in their world, not wanting her to follow in his reckless footsteps.

Had Jones discovered a way to counteract the consequences of harmonic frequency exchange? Or had he discovered a new method of travel altogether?

Jones' plan was already becoming clear, but Zack asked anyway, if only to confirm what he suspected.

"What do you _really_ want, Jones?"

"Join me. Together, we'll hunt down Bell and take him out, and hopefully begin to change the tide of this endless bloody war."

"Why me?"

"Come now, Zachary. You know very well that the other captains would never give me the time of day. But I know you care about the survival of our world as strongly as I do. I can think of no one else I would rather have at my side."

"You're asking me to defect from ZFT."

"I'm asking you to do what's _right_."

"No way, Jones," said Zack. "You know I can't do that."

Jones' ardent facade soured to one more irate.

"The other captains are too afraid to take that extra step necessary to ensure our survival. Don't be like _them_, Zachary."

"There's a reason we do things the way we do." Tau Cell's captain shook his head. "You haven't changed at all Jones; you're still as deluded as you ever were."

A great scowl possessed Jones' face, but Zack barely paid mind as he noticed the dumpster off to the left began to move of its own accord. It dragged on the asphalt, and then rose into the air in a lumbering motion, wavering; in alarm, Zack drew his pistol, aiming to Jones.

"..._You_..."

"What the...Jones, are you doing this?"

In rebuttal, the dumpster was forcibly flung in Zack's direction; he narrowly avoided it, rolling to the side as it careened into trash cans down the way, sending stray cats into flight. When Zack came to his senses, he saw Jones wheezing, shuddering as he regained his composure.

"Of course," said Jones to himself, looking at his right hand while steadying it with his left. "Strong emotions amplify the effects."

"What are you talking about?"

Jones directed his attention to Zack.

"Haven't you heard? I was the first Cortexiphan subject."

Reinhardt could not even bring himself to express his incredulity.

"When Bell and Doctor Bishop first developed Cortexiphan, I volunteered to be their guinea pig," he explained. "Obviously, being an adult, the treatments damn near killed me, but we didn't know that at the time. Following this, they decided children would prove more suitable candidates. Since then, whatever abilities I may have had faded entirely; I don't know how, but my recent teleportation must have jogged my dormant powers. No matter. When I get myself patched up, I intend to put them to good use."

Jones smiled to himself, recalling how, after leaving a parting message for Olivia Dunham on the wall of his hospital room through willpower alone, he had proceeded to bust a hole in the wall with his mind, and then proceeded to leap out into the night sky, using telekinesis to stabilize his descent to the ground like an awkward feather, inevitably scaring off the people on the ground below as he did.

The reverie subsiding, he sighed as he assessed the outcome of his meeting with Zachary Reinhardt.

"It appears I was mistaken to come to you with this offer," said Jones. "I suppose I will have to kill Bell with my own hands and take full credit for leading our side on the road to victory." He shrugged. "Though it's a shame to think that when the time came, you turned out to be too much of a coward to actually do something about this war."

Zack narrowed his eyes. Unlike the rest of them, Jones had always taken things too far. He had no notion of limitations or consequences, and became a liability to ZFT, hence why he was expelled as the captain of Zeta Cell in the mid-90's. And he knew Jones was as driven as he was reckless; he knew Jones would pursue his plans, regardless of the cost.

He dreaded what damage Jones would wreak in the process.

"I'd best be going," announced Jones. "As you can imagine, there is much that needs to be done. See you around, old friend."

Cowed by Jones' display of power, Zack could only watch as Jones made his limping way past him.

Seconds later, Jones stopped.

"Oh, one more thing," he said over his shoulder. "Tell Leonard that I've activated Bell's Gatekeeper. And be sure to send him and Allie my regards, will you?"

Zack turned around to see Jones hobble down the aisle, taken aback yet again by words that in any other situation would have been ludicrous to consider, let alone accept. In silence, he wrestled with the notion that Bell could have indeed betrayed them all, having nothing to confirm such an allegation save for Jones' words. He could only imagine how personally Jones took it when he discovered Bell's involvement in the creation of the First Wave Hybrids; he had once looked up to Bell as a mentor and as a friend, something that changed with growing disagreements in proposed methodologies of war.

It was the passage of a stray dog that awakened him from his stupor. He cursed Jones and his arrogance, but he cursed himself more for thinking despite himself that what Jones said might actually be true. With a groaning sigh, he quit the alley and resumed his solemn march on the street, not looking forward to seeing how the other Captains would react to _this_.


	6. Chapter 5: A Place Called Home

Chapter 5: A Place Called Home

"So, what do you say, kiddo?" asked Horace Bradford.

The pale, hairless child looked up, then looked away.

"Tell you what, I'll make you one anyway. My treat. You can try it and see if you like it."

Horace sped off behind the counter to prepare Bradford Diner's specialty for the strange little boy Mister Wright and his associate brought in with them. Didn't talk, rarely looked you in the eye, awfully shy; common traits exhibited in children when dealing with strangers such as himself. Other than the disturbing lack of hair, his behaviour wasn't too off for a kid his age.

It wasn't everyday that Mister Wright brought children to his diner. In fact, it never happened. And that both they and the child were similar in appearance was a connection he immediately made, the gears in his mind whirring at the sight, but he knew better than to ask questions. Whistling, he prepared the sundae with second-natured finesse and brought it to the table where the child sat.

"There we go! One Vanilla Blast Sundae."

He placed the oblong bowl of soft serve vanilla ice cream before the boy, which was drizzled in chocolate syrup and topped with a maraschino cherry. He thrust a spoon into the sundae and nudged the bowl in the child's direction. The boy didn't react.

"Well, if you ever change your mind, it'll be right there waiting for ya."

Horace stepped back and watched the boy fiddle with the spoon. The proprietor turned to Misters Wright and Morgan, who were standing at the counter.

"Anything for you, gentlemen?"

"No, thank you," said Wright. "We are fine."

"Actually," said Morgan, "I would like a platter of fries."

"Coming right up!"

Horace retreated to the kitchen, leaving the Witnesses and the child to themselves.

"Keep close to the child," said December. "I will contact the Overseer."

Nodding, November stood before the child's table as December went off to the side and took out his MultiCell. After pressing a long series of keys, patterns determined by algorithms he and all Witnesses had memorized, he placed the device to his ear.

"We have successfully retrieved the child and have moved him to a secure location," said the Arbiter. "How are we to proceed?"

It was not one voice that spoke, but many, a chorus of electronic throats of varying tones and pitches, male and female, old and young.

"Good. Any preliminary observations on the subject?"

"We have determined that he is only partially bound to the Equation, but less so than us. He also possesses the ability of telepathic communication, though it remains to be seen if he has other skills."

"And what do we know of this child? Name, address, potential relatives?"

"The child appears mute, or is unwilling to speak; he seems to prefer telepathic communication, but his prowess his lacking, and he cannot transmit but the most simplistic thoughts. Conversations we have had with him suggest the child has lost or repressed memories; I have tried to access some, but his mind appears too fragile to navigate without inflicting potential harm. Furthermore, Proxies have determined that a construction worker had found him. He was hidden – or perhaps trapped – in a sealed subterranean bunker dating from the Second World War. The child soon came into the custody of Fringe Division, then to Joan Winick, at whose residence he has been staying for the past few weeks. Other than this, we know nothing."

"Then this means he must be a minimum of seventy years in age." The Overseer paused. "Interesting. December, could you use your specs to capture an image of this child? I would like to see him for myself."

"Of course. Expect something shortly."

December collapsed the MultiCell and strolled over to the table where November and the Child were seated, engaged in silent conversation.

_You do not want to eat this sundae?_

_No._

Horace emerged from the counter, carrying a large plate of fries, which he placed on the counter. Seeing this, November went to seat himself there, and assaulted the fresh batch of fries with a bath of Thai sauce.

Horace approached December, who was readying some sort of sleek binoculars.

"So, uh, is there anything else I can do to help?"

"Not at the moment," replied Wright. "Please step aside, Horace. I must capture an image of the child."

_Stand still, child, and look to me._

But upon seeing the device December was holding, the boy grew apprehensive. Horace stepped in.

"Here, let me handle this."

Horace seated himself opposite of the child.

"Hey, kiddo. Mister Wright here is going to take a picture of you, now."

The boy remained silent. Horace wiped his large hands on his apron, eyes narrowed in musing.

"Here, how's about you take a picture with your good pal Horace?"

Horace switched his seat, placing himself at the child's side. He gestured for Mister Wright to sit on the other side of the table, which he did, beginning to realize the human's intent.

"Now, I want you to give the biggest smile you possibly can, okay?" he said. "You got the shot, Mister Wright?"

"Actually, it would be better if you moved closer together."

Horace shuffled in his seat and placed his arm around the child; he seemed even more fragile in comparison to Horace's burly frame. Horace looked to the boy to see that he was avoiding the gaze of the binoculars.

"It's alright, little guy," said Horace. "Come on, smile for me. You can do it." He poked him lightly in the ribs, and the boy twitched. Horace continued, wriggling his fingers into his side, and while the boy fought to maintain control, a smile nonetheless escaped from his lips. "Ah, there you go! You go it, Mister Wright?"

"Yes," said Wright. "Say _cheese_."

December took the shot.

"It is done."

"See," said Horace. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

December took out his MultiCell, where the picture was automatically sent to, and proceeded to view the picture on the round screen – a grinning Horace beside a child bearing a reluctant smile – before forwarding it to the Proxy network, attaching a top-priority tag to the file.

He didn't have to wait long for a response.

"Please, excuse me," said Wright as his phone chimed in.

"Of course," replied Horace.

December distanced himself and took the call.

"I want this child brought directly to Für Immer as soon as possible," said the Overseer.

The Arbiter could count on one hand the number of times he had heard such urgency in Mercedony's voice.

"What is it?" asked December.

"When I have confirmed my suspicions, I will inform you. Just bring him to me."

"...Understood. We will have him transported to you."

He went over to November, who was vacuuming the last of the fries into his gullet.

"What did he say?" inquired November, wiping his mess of a mouth with a napkin.

"He has requested we transport the child to Für Immer immediately."

November's head tilted.

"Did he inform you why that is necessary?"

"He did not. However, the urgency of his message suggests that this child is important, so we should be prompt."

"How will we bring him there?" asked November. "There is no way to predict what effect passing the child through the RLTB will have on him."

"You are correct," replied December, musing. "It would be better to take a more cautious approach. I suppose we shall have to leave this matter in the hands of the Proxies, then. Contact Claude and have him meet us here."

November obliged, sending out the message via MultiCell. After the twenty minutes that followed – during which the child had eaten very little of the sundae – a black Bentley pulled into the diner's parking lot, and a man emerged from the vehicle. He was in late thirties, and his full, mid-length hair grew to his jaw line in wavy layers. Upon entering, he approached Mister Wright, shaking his hand, as well as Horace's, who rose to meet his guest and acquaint himself with him.

"Food or drink, Mister Claude?"

"No, thank you."

"Alrighty, then. I'll be at the counter if you need anything."

Once Horace left, December addressed the Witness-by-Proxy.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Claude," said Wright. "Mister Richards has requested this child be moved to his headquarters. Can you arrange for his transport there?"

"Certainly, Mister Wright. We can have a private jet ready for takeoff within the hour."

"Excellent."

December and November went to the child, who seemed to clue in that something was happening.

_Go now?_

_Yes. Claude will accompany you to your destination by plane._

_Plane? _

_You will be traversing the skies and going over the sea. It is a safe method of transport. _

_Come with?_

_I regret that I cannot accompany you. I have important work to do._

_Please come. No go alone. _

December's mind slowed to a crawl as he realized the severity of what the child was demanding of him.

"What is it?" asked November.

"It appears that he wishes for me to accompany him," said December. "He does not seem to be willing to part otherwise."

"How will you proceed?"

"I suppose I have no other choice but to go with him. But...I must admit that I am hesitant. I have never traveled by plane before."

"Don't worry, Mister Wright," said Claude. "It'll be fine, I promise."

"...Very well, then. Mister Morgan, I will forward my assignments to you. Please oversee them in my absence."

"Understood."

The Arbiter turned to the child.

_I will accompany you. Is this satisfactory?_

_Okay. We go._

Horace, who was standing at the counter, walked up to them when he saw the child rise from his seat and take up his backpack while donning and adjusting his baseball cap.

"So you guys are leaving now?"

"Yes," said Wright. "Thank you for your services, Horace. Mister Morgan, please see to it that Horace receive his dues."

But as November retrieved money from his wallet, Horace waved his hand.

"That won't be necessary," he said, dismissing the money. "Being of service is reward enough." He then bent down, placing his hands on his knees, and spoke to the child. "I hope you have a nice trip. Come visit me soon, ya hear?"

He touched the tip of the boy's nose, and the boy recoiled, grinning. Then Claude escorted the child to the door, followed by Wright and Morgan. And as for Horace, he watched from the door as the two Bentleys sped off in opposing directions, musing on who that child really was, as well as wondering, as he often did, what it would have been like to have children of his own.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The three arrived at the privately-owned airstrip after a forty minute drive, where the Gulfstream jet that was to ferry them across the Atlantic awaited. Once there, December, Claude, and the child made their way across the tarmac to the aircraft; Proxy agents stationed at the site came to take care of the Bentley they left behind. Climbing the staircase afforded by the open door, Claude guided the apprehensive child onto the plane, after which he guided a just as anxious December inside.

There were sixteen seats in the jet, arranged in four rows of two seats on either side of the central aisle; another Proxy agent sat in front, as did a hostess.

_Where would you like to sit?_

_Here._

The child sat by the window on the third row back, putting his backpack at his feet. After December had handed his briefcase to the Proxy agent in the front, Claude helped the boy into his seatbelt, and December strapped himself as well with the Proxy's instructions. After they were all set, Claude traveled to the cockpit, alerting the pilot that they were ready to depart. He then returned, opting to the aisle seat across from December.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," said a male voice on the intercom. "This is the captain speaking. We'll be flying from Worcester, Massachusetts to Nuremberg, Germany. Flight duration will be approximately nine hours, and estimated time of arrival is set at five fifteen, local time. We're expecting a smooth flight, though we might hit a few rough patches as we near the European Peninsula. Please keep your seatbelts on during the departure, and we hope you have a pleasant flight."

The moment the plane began moving, December gripped the armrests.

"Claude, what is happening?" he asked, eyes darting around the interior of the shuttle.

"The pilot is driving the plane around to face the runway," explained Claude.

"...Yes, of course," said December, releasing his grip, reprimanding himself for not having realized something so obvious.

Though as the plane aligned itself with the runway and began to accelerate, December gripped the armrests once more, and with even greater strength once the plane lifted from the tarmac and began to tilt upward. Having never experienced such changes in altitude and g-forces, the Arbiter could only remained rigid in his seat as the jet inched skyward. The child did the same, and midway through the climb, he placed his hand on December's; the Witness did nothing, too absorbed by the alien experience of artificial flight.

It was only several minutes after the plane had leveled itself off at its intended elevation and the seat belt sign had long flickered off that December eased himself.

_Fun! _

_...I would beg to differ._

The hostess soon came to offer beverages and snacks, to which all but Claude declined, helping himself to a gin and tonic. The captain spoke on the intercom once more, announcing their elevation and weather forecasts, signalling the beginning of the long flight ahead.

For the first few hours, they watched programs on the screens embedded on the back of the seats before them, the child busying himself with Looney Tunes cartoons and December watching episodes of a soap opera, which to his Witness eyes were accurate and realistic depictions of human interaction.

The boy eventually tired of the cartoons, and instead decided to stare out the window while December tried to predict how Marcia would react faced with the revelation of Darren's infidelity.

_Pretty._

_Yes. It is quite the sight. _

_Think...done this._

December turned his head, surprised.

_You've crossed the ocean before?_

_Think. But was down, not up. And not this way. _

The child placed a hand on the window, trying to piece together the context of the vague and hazy recollection that was stirred by the sight of the sparkling Atlantic, but to no avail, and the topic was discontinued soon after.

By mid-afternoon, Claude had dozed off, and the child, curious about December's various items, began to ask about them.

_...That?_

_It is called a MultiCell. It is what I use to communicate with my colleagues, among other things._

_That?_

_It is a pair of binoculars, which I use to aid in my observations._

_Reed have?_

_Yes. Mister Reed also possesses these items._

_See Reed again? Like to. _

_We shall see. _

Turbulence struck soon after, and December gripped the armrests faster than the human eye could perceive; Claude leaned over to reassure him.

"We're just passing through some rough pockets of air. Nothing to be alarmed about."

"Yes," said December casually. "Of course."

He looked to the child, who was smiling, deriving amusement from December's aversion to the turbulence. But before he could ask for clarification on the behaviour, the plane rocked again, and moments after, once more. December held tight; that he could perceived the bumps before they happened brought him no solace, and he voiced his apprehension accordingly.

"Oh... Oh...Oh..."

To the Arbiter's great relief, they eventually punched through the turbulent airspace; he reminded himself to steer clear from those precise spatial coordinates in the future.

The child grew excited when the European Peninsula appeared in the horizon; his face was glued to the circular porthole, watching water give hesitant way to land. Claude then appeared, having previously departed to chat with his fellow Proxy and the hostess for a good forty-five minutes.

"We'll be there in a few more hours," said the Proxy agent.

"Good," said Mister Wright.

It was only then, subject to the confines and speed of the jet, did December realized how much he valued the efficiency of de-collapsing his personal wave function to shift to a location of his choosing. How could the humans bear such slow methods of travel? He decided that their willpower and patience was admirable.

Sometime after the jet crossed into German territory, the child looked at the Arbiter, who sat stoic in his seat, eyes fixed ahead. He stared for several minutes, then asked a peculiar question.

_You... see Wall?_

_A wall? Which wall do you refer to?_

_Reed not see Wall. You not see too?_

September had written in his report that the child had referred to a wall of some description. Was it the Veil he was perceiving, or something else?

Any chance at further inquiry was negated when the pilot's voice resounded overhead.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now fifteen minutes from Nuremberg. Local time is approximately four fifty-seven in the afternoon. We'll be making our descent very soon. We hope you enjoyed your flight."

When the pilot announced the descent, December clutched the armrest again, bracing himself until the plane had halted completely on the ground below, at which point he stood up with great caution, unsure if he should be expecting anything else from the aircraft. Claude rose as well, escorting December and the child out the airplane onto the airstrip. The sky was just beginning to golden, promises of orange and red tinting the blue backdrop of the sky.

"So, how did you find the flight, Mister Wright?" asked Claude.

"As fascinating as it was, I do not think I will be travelling by plane again," he replied.

At that, the Proxy agent chuckled.

"And how about you, young man?"

The child nodded, glad to finally be out in the open; he had long ago filled his quota for time spent in enclosed spaces.

They strolled to the black Porsche that awaited them some distance from the airstrip; upon their arrival, December addressed Claude.

"Escort him to the drop point. Mister Richards will take things from there."

"Understood." The Proxy agent opened the car door. "Right this way."

But the child was not so pleased.

_You said come!_

_This is as far as I will be able to go with you. Claude will accompany you the rest of the way. _

_But..._

_You will be safe with him. There is no need for worry.  
_  
_See you?_

_I am certain that we will meet again. _

_Where now?  
_  
_You are going to meet Mister Richards. He is the one who will be able to help you regain your memories and determine your place of origin. _

At the promise of home, the little boy nodded and entered the vehicle. He looked out the window to see Wright raising his hand without a smile as a gesture of departure. As the car sped away, the boy returned his sights forward, where he heard Wright send him a final message.

_Farewell, child._

But when the child looked back, he saw nothing save the faint rustling of leaves where Mister Wright stood but moments ago.


	7. Chapter 6: False Awakening

Chapter 6: False Awakening

He had hoped not to dream that night.

Alas, the universe had never been one for compassion.

It started just as it had always done the few times it had reoccurred over the past several weeks. He found himself pinned in the narrow space between a dumpster and a brick wall in an alleyway. But it was not the dumpster that made him unable to move; his fourteen year-old frame was paralyzed by a force he could not define, his mind trapped within his immobile body, and he was left a passive observer of what was to follow.

There came the frantic footfalls, originating in an alley lying outside his field of vision. The shadow of this individual was projected onto the wall, a breathing picture that looked around left and right. Another shadow entered the scene, dropping from above, dwarfing the first in size. The shadows grew smaller and smaller as their casters drew nearer to the brick wall that comprised the totality of the boy's view. The man backed up against the wall; a beanie was set on the top of his head of long, shaggy hair. His eyes shifted to the dumpster, and a single thought emerged above all others in Dan's head.

_...You weren't there. _

The second shadow took him, arms extending to grab the man's collar, whereupon a symphony of creaking bones and agony accompanied the wall's penumbral depiction of cruelty. There was no time in this place; the display went on forever, but it was done in an instant. Then the footsteps of the second shadow crept to the dumpster in the moment the boy dreaded worst. Ever closer it inched, until at last, its face appeared to him.

And the face that stared was his own.

He awoke with a subtle jolt, his slumbered eyes facing the wall to the side of his bed. Wearily, he glanced at the digital clock at his bedside, whose teeth smiled back with a two o'clock grin. He sighed. Of what rest he was able to find in recent times, most had been dreamless; but when he did dream, it was always that same accursed one that came to haunt him.

He was prepared to have another go at REM cycles when his drowsed senses detected something. A displacement of air; the creaking of the floorboard, ever so minute. He reached for the lampshade and turned it on, and with squinting eyes, was met with a perplexing sight.

An elderly woman was standing at his bedside, seeming almost as confused as he was.

Dan steadied himself upright on unlimber arms, his brain taxed by puzzlement; the woman quickly regained herself, smiling warmly.

"Time to go back to sleep, dearie," she said. "You'll wake up soon enough."

She came closer, and Dan lowered himself into the bed, his unquestioning mind numbed by fatigue, allowing her to tuck the covers over his body.

"Wait... who –"

"Hush, now," she interrupted, running her hand down his face in a single fond stroke. She distanced herself, reassuming her bedside position. "Good night, Dan."

At that, she turned off the lamp.

Seconds later, she pressed a pillow firmly upon Dan's face.

It did not occur to him that he was being suffocated until the ache to breathe pierced through the complacency of his senses. He began to struggle, attempting to leverage himself out of his assailant's grasp, but the strength in the old lady's arms was closer to that of a strong man than of a frail senior.

_...What the hell?!_

The sudden threat to his life sobered his body and mind in instants, and Dan, adrenaline fostering lucidity, actively resisted, fighting back with all he had. Blinded, partially deafened by the insulation of the pillow, his thrashing was unfocused, untempered; even so, he managed to land a kick to the woman's gut, and he didn't hesitate to exploit the brief window of respite it afforded him.

Freeing himself from the pillow's choking entrapment, he rolled off the opposite side of the bed, falling to the floor with heaving coughs and gasps, barely escaping the woman's clutches as she reached over the bed to seize him. He scrambled to his feet just in time to see the intruder round his bed to grope at him in the darkness, and ducking to evade a wide, arcing blow, he thrust his shoulder into her body – which was heavier than it seemed – and she slammed into the door, twirling away into the living room.

Dan followed, aiming not to yield any ground and give her the advantage. She returned to her feet; her form was nebulous in the darkness. It was when he saw her draw a knife that he knew for certain this was not a dream. The switch blade flicked open, the steel reflecting a band of moonlight through the window. She swung at him, and he arced his torso back; he did the same again as she struck once more.

They stood at odds in the living room. Who – or what – was he dealing with? Many candidates ran through his mind, flashes of Wendigos, of Shapeshifters, of Reptilians in disguise; whatever this woman was, he had no doubt she wasn't human.

Without warning, she bridged the gap, arm braced above to deliver a downward blow.

Seeing the glint of the blade in the darkness pouncing for him, Dan, with a speed he didn't know his reflexes possessed, gripped the nearest object his hands could find – a gargoyle statuette he once procured on a whim at an antique shop – and struck her arm out of the way, placing another strong blow on her now-exposed head. She teetered, the hit connecting to reeling effect; one final strike proved sufficient to send her slumping on the floor in unconsciousness.

For several moments, Dan remained rigid in the living room, his body trembling. When full awareness returned – a gradual process – he ventured to the nearby light switch panel and flicked each switch on. An old woman was lying on his carpet, knocked out, potentially dead. He looked at his statuette; there was a silver stain on the edge where there was once nothing. With surmounting dread, he circled his uninvited guest, only to see a bit of blood trickling from her skull, laced with silver droplets.

_...A Shapeshifter. Great._

Holding his statuette firmly above his head in case of sudden movements, Dan crouched by the Hybrid's side and disarmed it, placing the blade on the nearby coffee table. He went back to check the body for a pulse; there was indeed one, which Dan took as a sign that it was still _alive_, if such a term was accurate. As he did so, his brain, now freed from the baser instincts of survival, worked to analyze the situation.

The most pressing question was how the Shapeshifter entered his apartment.

He checked the most obvious entryway. The door to his apartment was closed, but unlocked; the Shapeshifter had managed to pick the main lock and somehow undo the door chain from the outside. The surprise subsided in seconds, seeing as the Shapeshifters were most keen on efficiency.

But then, why come here?

He drifted back to his incapacitated guest, standing before it with arms crossed. The Shapeshifters were never ones to do things without reason, which meant that visiting Dan was part of its mission; a mission which, as it seemed, was meant to end with his death.

His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him.

_ ...If they know where _I_ live..._

He made for the phone. The call was placed, and the tone resounded for what seemed like ages.

"...Hello?" answered the voice.

"Spock! Hey, you alright?"

"Crow? You sound worried. Did someone try to break in to your apartment too?"

Dan's eyes flashed wide.

"You know?"

"Ten minutes ago, I heard someone trying to break into my front door. Heh, good thing I have six locks. He was in the middle of the fourth one when I took notice, and I started re-locking the ones he had opened just to screw with him. He knew the jig was up, so he left. What about you?"

"Spock, I think that guy was a Shapeshifter."

Spock's voice lowered to a whisper.

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"Just now, I knocked one out after it damn near killed me."

"Holy crap! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. But I have an unconscious Shapeshifter on the floor."

"So what are going to do know? Are you going to kill it?"

Dan stared at the inert body in his living room, deep in thought.

"Crow? Are you still there?"

"Spock?"

"Yeah?"

"I have an idea... Call Keane, and tell him to come with you at my apartment. I'll call Becca and George and see if they're alright."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

"I still think we should kill it."

Enigma stood with Spock and Crow in the living room, gathered before the Shapeshifter. It turned out that neither Enigma, Polaris, nor Druid were attacked by Shapeshifters, or had some sent after them, which was odd; they then figured that the Shapeshifters must have learned only of Spock and Crow's identities. Polaris and Druid remained on standby at their respective domiciles as the trio deliberated on their next move.

"Why?" asked Dan at Keane's suggestion. "This Shapeshifter is of more use to us alive than dead."

"In case you've forgotten, this thing tried to _kill_ you," replied Enigma. "It could wake up any minute now. It's too dangerous. And there's no guarantee we'll be able to get anything useful out of it."

"We have to try," said Dan. "This thing knew where I lived, and another one knew Spock's address. They know who we are, now; hell, they probably know everything about us. And that puts you guys in danger, too. We won't get another chance like this."

"I don't know, Crow," said Spock. "Can a Shapeshifter even _be_ interrogated? It's a trained soldier, so it probably won't tell us squat."

"We won't know for sure until we give it a shot," said Dan. "But we can't do it here." He turned to Enigma. "Keane, you said you know of a place where we could bring it?"

"Yeah. There's a bunch of closed-up apartments in Roxbury I sometimes pass by. We could conduct our interrogation there."

"Excellent," said Spock. "Now we just have to figure out how to smuggle this thing out the building without drawing attention to ourselves."

The three of them stroked their chins in collective musing.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Spock led the way as Enigma and Crow carried the rolled-up carpet from Crow's living room down the stairwell.

It was the dead of night, so there were few souls to be seen; however, they did cross paths with one passerby.

"Don't mind us," said Spock. "We're just carrying a carpet."

The man plastered his back against the wall, granting the trio some space. He stared with perplexity, but after they had passed, he thought little of it and continued his ascension, failing to notice the tip of a shoe that protruded from the end of the carpet's compacted bulk.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The Liberation Front was gathered inside the foreclosed apartment Enigma had led them to. They had followed Enigma's car, with Spock sitting in the passenger seat of the Oldsmobile as Dan drove. Spock had stared back the entire time, keeping the body under unyielding supervision; only once did he have to use the lug wrench he gripped to placate their guest when it began to rouse within the confines of the carpet.

They had made a quick stop to Enigma's place so as to gather materials indispensable to an interrogation. Following this, they proceeded to the foreclosed apartment proper, where they set up shop. Polaris and Druid had arrived around fifteen minutes after the trio had stripped the entrance to one of the rundown apartments of the wooden planks barring entry, where they found Enigma tying the Shapeshifter to a chair they had found on an upper floor with liberal amounts of rope. An electric lantern lay in the corner, illuminating the room to a sufficient, though less than optimal standard.

Through the doorframe, Druid and Polaris observed the old woman strapped into a chair via rope with wary eyes; the carpet from Dan's living room was cast in the corner, a small stain of blood and mercury tainting the fabric. Dust clung to the beams of light projected by the lantern, as well as those of the street lamps and the moonlight seeping through the cracks of the barricaded windows, and only baying hounds and police sirens could be heard, emanating from the outside world.

When at last the Shapeshifter began to stir, Polaris went to find the rest of the Liberation Front while Druid stood guard; the others were huddled in the hallway, outside of the holding room's earshot.

"Guys," said Polaris, interrupting their hushed conversation. "I think it's waking up, now."

Spock addressed Dan.

"So, how are we going to play this?

"I don't know," shrugged Dan. "Good Cop, Bad Cop?"

"I call Bad Cop!" said Spock excitedly.

"Seriously?" said Enigma, raising an eyebrow. He exhaled the smoke of his cigarette. "I doubt a Shapeshifter would give in to such an obvious tactic."

"Do _you_ have any experience in interrogating non-human subjects?" retorted Crow.

"...Point taken," said Enigma, squashing the cigarette with his shoe upon letting it fall to the floor.

"We'll try it out, see what it gives us, and change our strategy accordingly," said Crow. "Druid will stay at the door. You two, stand in the corners of the room. Spock and I will do the talking. Everyone got that?"

They nodded in acquiescence, after which they proceeded to the holding room. Enigma and Polaris positioned themselves in the corners, with Druid's frame obstructing the exit; all three held their weapons openly, their metallic surfaces faintly reflecting the ambient light. Crow took a seat placed on the side of the room, spun it around, and sat in it before their guest, while Spock stood off to the side, hands clasped before him.

"Rise and shine, dearie," said Crow.

The Shapeshifter lifted its head groggily, the corner of its forehead caked with drying blood. It assessed its situation, determining that its torso was restrained, as were its wrists, tied with rope to the armrests. The old woman shot defiance from her eyes, analyzing every individual present with mixtures of loathing and offence; so menacing was her stare, and so unbecoming it was for an elderly woman, that Crow could not stop a chill from tracing a finger along his spine.

"You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot," continued Crow. "Let's start over, shall we? My name's Daniel. But I suppose you already know that, just like you already know who my associate here is. And I imagine that you don't have a proper name, either, unless you'd like to share it with us."

Silence.

"Now, I know you'd rather be elsewhere, and frankly, so would I. But you can only leave on one condition. You'll answer a couple of my questions, and if you cooperate, we'll let you be on your merry way, and we'll forget this ever happened. Of course, if you decide to be difficult, I can't promise that I'll be able to control Spock over here."

Spock gave his best intimidating stare, which came off as a more deranged one than anything else.

"So, let's have at it," said Crow. "Why did you come for me?"

The Shapeshifter remained stoic.

"Who sent you? Who do you work for?"

It remained decidedly uncooperative, prompting Spock to intervene.

"Listen carefully, my friend," said Spock, circling the Shapeshifter, "because I'm only say this once. It is entirely within my power to create a pathway from my mind, to yours; a _mind-meld_, if you will." The Hybrid glanced to Crow, who nodded, giving credence to Spock's ultimatum. "In moments, I can siphon every ounce of data from your hard drive, and do so effortlessly. The only reason I have yet to do so is because I'm willing to give you the option of coming out of this with your dignity intact. So either you surrender your secrets on your own terms, or I will have no choice but to invade your mind, and I can't guarantee that it won't be messy."

Then, quite suddenly, he turned and gripped the Shapeshifter's shoulders, staring directly at its face.

"Look into these eyes and ask yourself; do you really want to make enemies with a Vulcan? Are your Romulan masters truly prepared to face the full wrath of the Son of Sarek? Well? Are they?"

At this point, the Shapeshifter seemed distraught, cocking its head back so as to distance itself from the man with the crazed blue eyes.

"Thank you, Spock," said Crow, trying to calm his partner. "I think our friend has gotten the message."

Spock seemed lost for a moment, then retracted himself from the chair, assuming his former position, and Crow continued.

"Now, let's try this again, shall we? Who do the First Wave Hybrids report to? What are the Harvesters? What are the Titans? What are you planning?"

The old woman seemed surprised – and perhaps even a bit impressed – that these people knew so much. Even so, her thin lips remained tight, remaining steadfast as ever. Seeing that the Shapeshifter would not yield, Enigma stepped out of the corner, sighing with irritation; he patted Crow on the shoulder, and Dan relented, giving Keane the floor.

Enigma stood before the Shapeshifter, placing his hands on his knees.

"Tell us what we want to know."

She didn't answer, prompting him to deliver a swift backhand across her cheek.

"Tell us what we want to know!"

Enigma knelt before the chair, gripped the Hybrid's left index finger, and bent it backwards; the bones snapped, causing the Shapeshifter to cringe, as well as everyone else in the room.

"Tell us what we want to know!" repeated Enigma, maintaining his stern, direct approach.

Receiving no answer, he tried again, this time breaking its middle finger, and a pained groan escaped the old woman's wincing lips. Enigma stepped back, the only sound in the room that of their captive's laboured breathing. Then, to their collective astonishment, they watched as the woman closed her constrained palm into a fist, and by apparent strength of will, her skewed index folded back into place while her middle finger creaked and cracked itself erect, which she flashed to Enigma in a gesture of iron audacity.

In response, Enigma steadied his pistol and placed a bullet in the Shapeshifter's kneecap.

It writhed in its seat, contorting in agony. It then looked up to Enigma, but a sadistic smile was added to the contempt on its face, as though goading Enigma to go further.

_Do you have what it takes to set me free?_, her eyes seemed to whisper.

Enigma readied his pistol once more; he wasn't about to let this thing get the better of him. However, Crow stepped in, lowering Keane's arm with his own. With a tilt of the head, he bid Enigma follow him, and they went into the hallway. Spock bowed out as well, leaving Polaris and Druid to keep their prisoner under surveillance.

Once outside of earshot, they spoke.

"This thing isn't going to budge," said Enigma. "We can't get anything more out of it. Let's take it out now and be done with it."

Dan held his hand to his chin, growing ever more desperate.

"Not yet," said Crow, running a hand through his hair. "Damn it! There's got to be something else we can do."

Torture and threats of violence and mental probing revealing themselves inefficient, Crow returned to the holding room, a new, nascent strategy formulating in his mind. Upon entering, the Shapeshifter directed its attention onto the oncoming human.

"Since you won't tell us what we want to know," he said as he towered over her, rummaging in her pockets, "I suppose we'll have to play the guessing game, won't we?"

The first thing he removed was a sleek black box.

The Conversion Device.

With nonchalance, Crow fiddled around with it, tugging at the flexible rods that ended in tri-pronged pads. He passed it to Spock, who too examined the object; he fiddled with the switch, turning it on and off again. All the while, Dan watched the Hybrid's reactions with great care; it did not appear very appreciative of their mishandling of its equipment, elderly traits configured in annoyance.

Seeing this, Crow took out not one, but two wallets from the woman. He flipped open a first one and scanned the driver's license.

"Eleanor Middleton," he read. "Age, 78. Brown eyes. Resident of Brookline, Massachusetts."

He looked at the photo, which matched the current guise of the Shapeshifter in their custody. Looking up at their prisoner, he realized that he was staring directly into the face of a dead person, the ghost of a woman who died in agony at the hands of the thing that was bound to the chair. In fact, he thought, all Shapeshifters wore the faces of the slaughtered, a further insult to those whose lives they had unjustly taken.

Crow's loathing of the First Wave burned with greater ferocity.

He scoured through the rest of the wallet, revealing meagre sums of money and a few debit, credit, and membership cards, which presumably all belonged to Eleanor when she was alive. He passed the wallet to Spock for a secondary examination before passing onto the next wallet, and he once more recited the information presented on the driver's license.

"Kurt Lawson. Age, 36. Green eyes. Resident of Manhattan, New York."

The Liberation Front members perked up at the differing address.

"So you were sent from New York City?" noted Enigma.

The Shapeshifter that once took the form of Kurt Lawson didn't deign to reply, seeing as the truth was plainly evident. Inspection of the wallet yielded nothing helpful, and with that, they had processed all the items on the Hybrid's person; Dan's improvised plan had run its course. The Shapeshifter would not talk, did not respond to physical threats, and could not be intimidated in any way.

Nothing more could be done. The Shapeshifter appeared to notice this too, and was pleased, knowing that its captors have exhausted all their options. The Hybrid's breathing was still a bit haggard from the injured knee, but there was an undercurrent of victory in its exterior temerity, and Crow clenched his jaw, none too pleased at the outcome of their interrogation.

"Do you want me to initiate a mind-meld?" suggested Spock.

"No," said Crow sternly. "We're done here."

To everyone's surprise, Crow held the Conversion Device plainly in his hand, dropped to the floor, and crushed it under the sole of his foot, shattering it, rendering it useless; the Shapeshifter was grossly displeased, boring holes into Dan's head with seething eyes.

"Listen closely," Crow said, approaching their prisoner. "You're going to go back to Manhattan to relay a message to your superiors for us. Tell them that the Liberation Front is coming for them, and that their days are numbered." He gestured to Enigma. "Cut her loose."

Enigma did as he was instructed, going behind the chair and cutting through the rope with a retractable knife. Polaris and Druid held their weapons fixed onto the Shapeshifter, deterring the prospect of taking any brash action. Enigma then cut the ropes binding its arms, freeing it from its confines; it rubbed its wrists with annoyance. Keane took his pistol and waved it, ordering the Hybrid to get moving. Slowly, the Shapeshifter arose, flinching when it tried to apply pressure to its bloodied knee, but the Liberation Front took no pity, and the Shapeshifter hobbled along in a pained limp.

Crow led the way as the team escorted the sluggish Hybrid to the exit, and upon determining that the coast outside was clear, he turned to face her.

"You can't hide behind new faces anymore, Eleanor Middleton," he said. "So if I ever see your face again, _my_ face will be the last thing you ever see. Got that? Now get the hell out of here."

Defeated, the Shapeshifter could only offer a harrowing scowl as it limped out the door and across the street, marching down the sidewalk.

"That was some smooth maneuvering, there, Crow," said Druid as the team gathered outside the apartment.

"I still think you should have let me initiate a mind-meld with it," said Spock.

"I guess we'll have to call a rain check on your Vulcan finesse, unfortunately," retorted Crow.

"He has a point, though," said Enigma. "We're just as clueless as we were before. All we know is that it was in Manhattan at one point. We're fumbling in the dark."

Dan peered into the starlit abyss above their heads.

"Knowing where it came from is better than nothing," he said, turning. "If we're going to make a difference, we need to take the fight to _them_. And New York is a big place, far bigger than Boston; there must be plenty of First Wave activity there waiting to be uncovered."

"Are you kidding me?" said Enigma. "We're just six people. How the hell are we going to tackle a city of eight million?"

"I don't know yet," said Crow, "but I'm sure we'll figure out something. All I know is that I'm done sitting around. So pack your bags, people. We're going to New York City."


	8. Chapter 7: Horn and Ivory

Chapter 7: Horn and Ivory

They sped across the Pacific Ocean.

The three were blurs, leaving great sprays behind them as their footfalls touched the undulating skin of the roiling seas. For outside observers – fish or birds, or the occasional boat, perhaps – they moved faster than they could physically perceive, the only sign of their existence being the wide, delayed jets of water that were left in their wake several seconds after their passing.

But for them, ambient time was slowed. The seagulls were fixtures in the salted air, and the waves were sluggish, becoming a desert of navy dunes that sparkled in the sun. It could not be said if they were moving at supersonic speeds, or if they were indeed simply gliding casually across the waters, one stride at a time; relativity was a curious thing. Yet they continued onward, moving fast enough to stay ahead of the breaking of surface tension, using the liquid flooring beneath them as a springboard for every successive step.

They had departed from New York to cross the country, taking the most direct route to Australia, running and Tunnelling their way through the contiguous United States. About an hour into their trip, they stopped briefly in Austin, Texas, for some hot wings, and resumed soon after, breaching the Mexican border twenty minutes later, proceeding onward to the Gulf of California, and then through the thin strip of land that was the peninsula of Baja California, beyond which Pacific territory awaited.

They ran and ran over the ocean, but at no point did they ever tire. The Guardians never tired, never slept, always aware and observing, seeing everything. They were made that way; born of the energy of the Alkahest, the Caretaker had told them. Great strength and speed, the capacity to alter the probabilities that they can phase through matter, the capacity to perceive possible outcomes to any given event and influence which of them comes to pass; this energy imbued them with many abilities. They were bestowed upon them by their Father so that they may carry out his Will, noblest among causes, and the agents of the Brotherhood strove to implement it to the fullest of their power.

The crossing of the Pacific took almost four and a half hours, which was nothing for them. Their speed was greatly increased as they allowed air particles to pass through them via Tunnelling, eliminating air resistance entirely. They still needed to breathe, however, and so every few minutes, they would cease to Tunnel; the moment they did, the air became a thick sludge, a wall they could not pass, the air resistance quasi-insurmountable to their bodies at the great speeds they travelled. It was there, perceiving things at a far slower rate, that they took in several long breaths, breaths that from the outside took milliseconds, and they would Tunnel once more and resume their next sprint.

Upon reaching Australia, they raced through the Outback, omens to a billowing storm of dust of their own creation. They took a detour to inspect the Uluru before carrying on, whizzing by cities and towns and lakes and mountains. And it was eight hours after they had left New York that they at last reached the southeastern tip of Australia, arriving at the rural community of Augusta, where the skies were beginning to golden from a descending sun. The coordinates they were given led them directly to a clearing in Town Park. The three bald men in dark suits and black longcoats gathered around an innocuous patch of grass and dirt.

"This appears to be the location," announced Saturday. The black flesh tunnels in his earlobes scintillated in the sunlight, as did the stud in his nose and the small loop in his right brow.

"Quaint weather," observed Wednesday.

"Yes, very," agreed Thursday. "Ready your compasses."

They did just so, holding the small round devices in their hands. Their respective needles were all pointing in different directions, the compasses lying dormant.

The Guardians waited until they were unobserved before crossing over from the Town of Augusta in the world of Solve to the City of Augusta in the world of Coagula. They closed their eyes, nothing observing them, they observing nothing; the universe passed through them, and when they opened their eyes, they were not in Solve's Australia, but Coagula's Australasia. Skyscrapers peeked beyond the park's tree line where there was once nothing but clear sky, and this park was bigger than its counterpart. There were more far more people as well, and more cars; the sounds of their passing comprised the background noise, accentuated by the occasional klaxon.

The trio paid attention to nothing save their compasses. Before them stood a large patch of stark ground that had clearly been sealed up with dirt in recent times. The compasses sprung to life in their hands, their needles charging with the residual signatures left by the Beacon when it was last from there, the moment when the Overseer sent it burrowing through the soil for it to emerge on the other end in the New York of Solve. The needles were all pointing at the dirt patch they were gathered around.

"It is working," said Thursday, pleased. "Now it is simply a matter of retracing the Beacon's path."

The trio fanned out, attempting to ascertain the trail of the Beacon. They were each experiencing a certain sense of apprehension; never before had the Guardians tackled so significant an assignment, and the responsibility that was entrusted to them was felt on all their shoulders.

"Over here," exclaimed Wednesday.

The other two looked at their compasses, whose needles were still locked onto the departure site ten feet away. However, when they came to Wednesday's side, they saw that the needle on his compass was pointing away from the site, fixed northwest, and that the needles on their own swivelled to match, attracted to the Beacon's scent.

"It would be best to find a more suitable vantage point," suggested Saturday.

The others nodded, and the trio sped off, Tunnelling through and up buildings so as to reconvene on their rooftops barely a second later. Here, the needles continued to point in the same general direction, though they could now see farther into the city, and where the needed to go.

"The Beacon was transported from this direction," said Wednesday. "Come, brothers."

"Wait."

Saturday stopped them, staring intently at his compass.

"What is it?" asked Thursday.

Saturday did not respond. Instead, he ventured out to the edge of the roof. His brothers followed after him as he leapt a couple of buildings across.

"Are you going to tell us what the problem is?" asked Wednesday with a smidgen of impatience.

"The needle is experiencing a small degree of deviation that should not be present," said Saturday. "It is deviating two degrees to the right, and it is increasing as I proceed in this direction."

To corroborate Saturday's theory, Wednesday returned to their previous location, hopping across buildings and returning a heartbeat later.

"You are correct," said Wednesday. "There is a deviation. It is barely noticeable, but its presence can be inferred. You are perceptive as always, brother."

Saturday inclined his bald head slightly.

"What could cause this?" asked Thursday. "It cannot be a defect in the compasses. Both of yours detect the same interference."

"There is only one possibility," said Saturday. "The deviation is being caused by a source whose frequency is near that of the Beacon's own."

They shared concerned glances.

"How can there be two distinct sources for the Beacon's frequency?" asked Wednesday. "Does the Overseer posses more than one Beacon?"

"No," said Thursday. "The Caretaker has told us that the Overseer possesses but one Beacon, just as our Father possesses but one Alkahest. It would seem that there is an object that is not only emanating a signature close to that of the Beacon's, but strong enough to interfere with our compasses."

"What could this object possibly be?" asked Saturday. He was genuinely curious; his mind could not imagine anything that could emit such a frequency other than the Overseer's Beacon.

"I do not know," said Thursday. "Should we investigate?"

Wednesday approached the lip of the building's roof, resting a foot on it.

"The deviation is minor, so the Beacon's true path is far more probable to be in this direction," said Wednesday. "We should divide ourselves. Two of us will follow the main signal, while the third investigates the anomaly."

"I will seek out the anomaly," offered Saturday.

"As you wish," said Thursday. "Keep us informed through your Com on your progress. We shall reconvene at a later time. Good luck, brother."

"And you as well, brothers."

Thursday and Wednesday brought a right fist to their left shoulder, then departed as a pair into the heart of Augusta. Saturday lingered on the rooftop for several moments, staring at the needle as it wavered almost imperceptibly, a secondary force nudging it in a different direction. The thought that there was something out there whose existence they did not predict made him uneasy, but he was intrigued as well, and greatly cautious. Perhaps the Overseer had anticipated that they were coming for his Beacon, and so set up a false trail; or perhaps there truly was a slight defect inherent to the compasses.

Whatever it was, he was set on determining the anomaly's origin.

Lining himself with the apparent bearing of the source, he leapt off the corner of the building. Time slowed down for him, and he breezed through the air to skip along tall structures, while those below who happened to have looked up at that very moment blinked their eyes, wondering if they really did see the black smudge that raced across their vision for scarcely a moment.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

August sat outside at a table in a delicatessen's small outdoor terrace, wanting this to be over as soon as possible.

He had long since scarfed down his snack, a Reuben sandwich garnished with the entirety of a pepper shaker; the sandwich had been addressed in all but one minute after serving, and he now directed his attention to the busied crosswalk down the road. He finished his preliminary observations of the scene, jotting them down in his notebook, wringing all there was from the site through his specs and innate perception. But the temporal precursor of David Robert Jones had yet to appear, and there was another significant moment that required his presence.

It was he among the Crépuscule Division Witnesses that the Overseer had assigned to monitor Jones as he searched for suitable Soft Spots for inter-world passage. Meanwhile, September had been sent out to retrieve Doctor Bishop so that he may guide him to retrieve the technology necessary to seal potential tears in the Veil. The Non-Interference Protocol was in effect, and yet August wondered if it would be best to suspend it so that they could deal with Jones directly; if he was left to run about, would he not cause great damage to the integrity of the Veil? Since the Overseer seemed willing to take these risks, August could only surmise that Jones' actions had been accounted for in Mercedony's plan, a plan he expected August to carry out.

Yet his thoughts were everywhere but his assignment.

He checked his pocket watch.

_03:32:17._

The students of the Masters Program for Fine Arts were already presenting their end of term art projects at the public exhibit being unveiled at Boston University. The Girl was there to present her own work, and he was looking forward to traveling there and witness what her mind had produced. But the seconds were ticking, it was well an hour into the exhibit. Would he be able to make it before the event passed?

A black, unmarked van parked on the side of the street in favourable answer to his question.

Out came a pair of men wearing dark clothing and caps, as well as a third individual; he wore sunglasses over his heavily bandaged face, a grey fedora on his head, and he carried a silver-grey briefcase out onto the street as his men retrieved and ferried additional equipment close behind. The trio stationed themselves in the middle of the road, some distance before the crosswalk, where they set their charges down.

August observed them assemble their equipment from the terrace. Jones erected a tripod and affixed a rectangular box to it while his men set up a computer on a second tripod. The Witness wasn't too keen on what was going to happen next. He was not there to change this Event's outcome through observation; he was merely tasked to monitor its progress, as there were no other outcomes extending from this Event that did not end in a breach forming in the Veil. The Overseer knew this, which is why September was allowed to involve himself with Doctor Bishop to begin with. That was as much outside intervention Mercedony was willing to risk; for while they could easily predict the consequences of human action, they could not as accurately assess the consequences of their own.

Jones and his crew laboured efficiently, yet August looked more often to his pocket watch than through his specs, silently urging them to hasten. Soon enough, their setup was complete, and August watched as Jones removed a small metallic rod from an orange container, handling the Zero-Point energy cell with utmost care while transporting it between his forefingers before inserting it into a slot on the back of the rectangular panel.

The machinery turned on the moment the cell was secured, and the process began. A high ringing began to fill the air as the infinite energy afforded by the cell allowed Jones' device to forcibly stretch the Veil from afar, a low sound at first, but quickly gaining in intensity; passersby craned their heads about them and brought their hands to their ears at the increasingly insufferable wailing of an unseen electronic siren. Already, August could perceive the boundary between Sectors 1 and 2 wear thin, a square patch in space-time rippling and undulating as though the surface of a lake, albeit a lake reflecting things that weren't there.

"Coordinate tracking is complete, sir," said one of Jones' men. "You can increase the sonic frequency."

Jones did just so, adjusting the dials on the projector panel, and the sonic shrilling swelled even further. The air itself began to shake just beyond the crosswalk in the middle of the intersection.

"Stabilize, damn it," muttered Jones to himself.

With great discomfort, August braced himself as the Veil whose integrity it was his duty to maintain began to stretch wide, allowing a glimpse into Sector-1; the bridge in the distance of Sector-2 was absent within the shivering window's landscape, and a truck that wasn't there ten seconds ago was now driving up the street.

"The coordinates are separating, sir," announced Jones' man. Jones attempted to counteract by toying with the dials as the truck continued to approach. "It's not working...They're still separating... We're losing it! We can't hold it open!"

Jones looked up from his console as the truck passed through the opening, from one reality into another; yet no sooner did half of its length pass through that the window quite suddenly collapsed onto itself, severing the back half of the truck, a portion of its tail left in Sector-1. The truck snaked as its severed back dragged noisily on the asphalt, sparks raining as the metal screeched on the street. The driver, suffering cardiac arrest from having suddenly entering a space-time distinct from its native one, struggled to maintain control of his vehicle. He collided into the side of a passing car, sending it spiralling further off as though it were slipping on a frozen lake.

The trio of men on the street grew more apprehensive as the roving behemoth of metal slid straight for them, wondering if it was going to stop or if it would plow through them; to their relief, it came to a grinding halt with only a few meters to spare. There was screaming and yelling and the blazing of car alarms as the frightened and confused skittered left and right.

"It's too thick here," said Jones to his associates, paying no mind to the surrounding fracas. "These are the wrong coordinates." He removed his glasses, looking at them with an eye in the process of becoming blind. "Try again, please."

Calm in the environing chaos, the three disassembled their equipment without a word before heading back to their black van, fleeing an intersection obstructed by damaged cars and the body of the truck, a truck that held a luminous glimmer to the eyes of the Witness. The Veil was indeed thick in this area, so August already knew that Jones would not be successful, but even so, he could see the strain the crossover attempt left in the space of the intersection, and the wounds made for a perturbing sight.

Yet Jones would continue searching for Soft Spots until he succeeded in creating a stable gateway, uncaring for the damage he might wreak along the way, and the Crépuscule Division Witness would be there at every turn, observing.

But Jones would not be trying again for some time. August checked his pocket watch, and was pleased that there was still time for the exhibit. He gathered his things, went inside to pay for his snack, then went out onto the street. And when no one was looking, he took to the RLTB, to Boston University, where the Girl would be waiting for him.


	9. Chapter 8: Remember

Chapter 8: Remember

From the airstrip, the black Porsche rolled into the inner city, then to the outskirts of Nuremberg, then beyond, nature shedding itself of man's influence at every turn, until they found themselves on the Bavarian countryside. Yet the boy was not so much enraptured by the exterior panorama than he was by the signs and panels that passed them by on the roadside.

Somehow, their words seemed familiar.

At first, he did not know what they meant, but through Claude and the driver, he was able to intuit their meaning, just as he had done for his understanding of the English language, intuiting the intent of its written and spoken words through Olivia and Miss Winick; and as the ideas behind the German words revealed themselves to him, he had the distinct sense that it was so much learning this language as it was rediscovering it.

Of the few things he knew with some degree of certainty, his lack of kinship with any language these people spoke was one of them. Why was it, then, that he began to remember German on his own, without the need to rely on Claude as his proxy? And why was it that the words and sentences that resurfaced were spoken by voices other than his own, voices that were familiar, yet more distant than an old and worn dream?

Could he have come here before?

He was tempted to think that he had, but he had forgotten most, if not all, of what happened before he ended up in that hole in the ground. Though as the Porsche rolled onto the backroads, further secluding itself from humanity, the boy didn't deny that the land spoke to him in some way.

Claude spoke.

"Mister Richards is a great man," he said. "I'm sure you'll like him."

_Richards like?_

But just as he should have expected, his question fell on deaf ears, and so he kept to himself; after all, none of them could hear him like Reed and Wright could.

Would Mister Richards be able to hear him?

Would Mister Richards help him remember?

Would Mister Richards show him the way home?

The child had never been able to determine why the idea of a home was so important; all he knew that he came from somewhere, a place far away, and that he wanted to return. It was the sole thought he had clung onto in his time underground, and was the thing he held onto as the vehicle made a left onto a dusty lane.

After traversing the slightly uneven path for a good fifteen minutes, something became visible in the distance. The boy perked up to see the ruins of an ancient castle perched on a distant hill.

The vehicle at last stopped on the side of the road, at the closest point between the ruins and the path. Claude emerged from the passenger seat and opened the child's backseat door, the Proxy agent extending his hand to help his charge outside. The boy obliged, taking his backpack with him.

"This way."

Claude led the child by the hand up the grassed knoll beside which the car was parked, leaving the driver to himself. Conquering the hill, the pair walked some distance on the large, open fields that lay before them. Great banking hills lay far to their right, while to their distant left, the fields surrendered to thickening forests; on imposing mounds before them some distance away lay the castle ruins.

They stopped.

"Well, here we are," said Claude. "This is as far as I can go with you."

His task fulfilled, the Proxy agent began to walk away, but the child's grip held firm.

"There's no need to worry," assured Claude. "He already knows you're here. He'll meet with you shortly."

Noting the sincerity in Claude's voice and emotional state, the child let the man's hand go, leaving him behind on the grass plains. The child watched the Proxy agent return to the black Porsche, and he followed the vehicle with his eyes as it sped down the lane, until both it and the cloud of dirt and dust it left in its wake had faded from view.

There he stood, stranded at the edge of empty fields glazed in the gold of the setting sun, the brisk winds of winter's end as his sole companion. The seconds ticked, but nothing was happening, causing him to grow anxious and restless. He looked back to the road, wondering with surmounting fear if they had abandoned him there.

And when he turned back, he was there.

Standing ten feet from the boy was a man, a tall man. He wore a hat, like Reed's friends did, as well as a suit, though it was brown as opposed to black, and over it he donned a beige longcoat. The man was lacking hair as well, he could see, though his eyes were but featureless whites, and a red line of a scar ran over his right eye. And his hands, gloved in black leather, rested one atop the other on the head of an exquisite cane which he held before him.

The child titled his head; the man gave off a faint, luminous aura, one distinct from the sunlight in which they bathed. And his presence stirred conflicting emotions, ones of awe and confusion and puzzlement, exacerbated when by instinct, he attempted to connect with him, seeking to appropriate his experiences for his own; alas, he could go no further than the surface of the man's mind, though he had the sense that the inscrutable depths he glimpsed were deeper than he would ever be able to know.

_Isen._

The wind blew, and the man's longcoat swayed, as did the grass. The voice that resounded was being projected directly into the boy's mind, circumventing the inefficiency of spoken word; it felt distant and very old, but in that distance the boy recognized hints of wistfulness and concern, and more prominent weariness.

_Isen...do you remember me?_

The boy flexed his naked brows.

_...Isen?_

_Yes. You are Isen. And I am Mister Richards._

Again the wind passed. The boy was struck by the name Richards gave him; a name, he realized, that he lost long ago.

Yes, he thought, looking at his hand.

_I am...Isen._

And with that, the impenetrable fog that shrouded his memories became minutely clearer. Anything pertaining to Mister Richards, however, was still opaque; he felt like he was _supposed_ to know him, but any memories he might have of him remained inaccessible.

_Know home?_

_I know of your place of origin, yes. But there is something we must address before anything else. Isen... what has happened to you since I saw you last? Do you remember?_

Isen remembered few things. He forgot how long he was in the bunker, but he knew he wasn't always there, and that shortly before he ended up trapped inside, someone had tried to help him somehow. He remembered the Atlantic Ocean when he saw it on his flight with Mister Wright, the crossing of which he suspected happened before the bunker as well.

However, anything before _that _was a blur, a very long blur in which nothing was defined save distant knowledge of home, having once been inside a large machine, the image of a black, upright rectangular box with red lines engraved upon it, and stretches of wandering and living in secluded places with no faces accompanying him other than his own.

The Overseer saw Isen's face subtly contort in attempted recollection, piecing together what little he knew; as Mercedony suspected, the nature of his present state eluded him.

What happened to the Isen he remembered, with the bright blue eyes and blonde hair?

He performed a cursory examination of the boy's mind. December had been wise not to have delved further; Isen's mind was in disarray, his memories buried deep, and the Overseer promptly retreated, for to have navigated any longer might upset the integrity of the boy's fractured mind, fragile as it already was.

And then, there was the matter of Isen's partial bond to the Equation. At some point, he must have been exposed to energy from the Void; barring freak exposure, there was only one other way he could have been exposed, and the Overseer was not fond of what such a thing implied.

Nevertheless, he knew what had to be done, if only to confirm his suspicions.

_Isen, I want to help you to remember. To do that, I must ask that you come with me. _

_Where?_

_Do you see that castle over there?_

Mercedony gestured to the ruins on the hill.

_That is where I reside. Come, Isen. We should get going.  
_

Isen hesitated at the sight of Mercedony extending his gloved hand.

_You need not worry. I will tell you everything you want to know about where you come from. But before we do, we must determine what has happened to you, and why so many of your memories remain repressed. _

_...Okay._

Isen walked over to him, and Mercedony placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.

_The field is still in effect; we will not be able to go in directly. We have no choice but to take the less direct route. Close your eyes, Isen. _

The boy did as he was told. Mercedony placed a gloved hand over Isen's eyes. Then came a brief tug and pull on his body, a bizarre and somewhat uncomfortable sensation that went away as fast as it appeared. When Mister Richards lifted his hand, they were near the top of the hill on the stone path leading to the castle, standing silent and imposing before them.

_Come._

Mercedony began the ascent of the remaining stone steps, using his cane as a walking stick, and Isen followed. They first crossed the castle gates, whose portcullis had all but faded in time; Isen craned his head to look at the curtain walls of eroding stone encroached with vines. The bailey was also decrepit, with wiry shrubs and plants having taken root there, and patches of lingering snow decorating the ground. Rocks and stone parsed the courtyard as well, having been chipped off surrounding walls and towers by the elements.

_Live here?_

_Yes and no. This way. _

They made for the central keep; it was wounded by a large gash that rent its southern face open and exposed, the wall having partially collapsed some time ago. Surmounting the rubble, they entered the keep, and Isen followed Mercedony down a flight of stairs that burrowed underground. It was very dark, but despite having lived above ground for the past few weeks, his eyes had yet to lose their affinity for caliginous spaces, and so he was able to find his way with ease, using the tapping of Mercedony's cane and his nearly imperceptible aura as his reference point.

They ended up in a cold, dark cellar. The room was unremarkable, and Isen wondered why he had been brought here.

_Follow me._

Mercedony walked forth, and passed through the rock wall at the end of the room; in the darkness, it seemed as though the wall flickered at his passing. Isen stopped before the wall, where he saw a symbol engraved on the blocks, a circle sitting within a larger one, both of them touching at a shared point in their circumferences; two smaller circles lay below the large one on either side, while three vertical lines sat beneath. He reached out to the symbol, and his fingers passed through it as it fizzled and wavered. Isen thrust his hand through, then his arm, before finally walking past the holographic projection.

It was still dark on the other side, and Isen navigated his way down a spiral staircase leading a level down. However, in this new corridor, the abrasive stone walls gave way to ones of soothing uniform white, and Isen squinted his eyes from the sudden alteration in ambient luminosity. The short hallway led to a domed chamber, where Mercedony was waiting for him; he stood before a large representation of the symbol Isen saw on the holographic wall, taking up significant space on the floor. Isen placed himself at the Overseer's side as an electronic voice addressed them.

"Identification."

Isen felt Mercedony flood the chamber with his thoughts in response.

_Authorization Mercedonius. _

The voice responded in a language Isen did not know.

"Autorisation vérifiée. Ravis de vous revoir, Mercedonius."

The symbol opened up like a camera lens, revealing a circular platform. Mercedony stepped onto it, as did Isen. The platform buckled beneath their feet, and they began to sink into the ground; it was then that Isen realized they were on an elevator. As they descended, the floor above them shut close once again. In the space of ten seconds, they had reached the bottom of the shaft, which was connected to an antechamber that ended in sealed doors.

Mister Richards spoke, yet while Isen could grasp the ideas being transmitted, Mercedony's thoughts held a markedly different texture; he could tell they were oriented in the same strange tongue shared by that voice.

_Jacques?_

"Oui, monsieur?"

_Disable the Temporal Acceleration Field in all areas save the Empyrean Interface. Our new guest might not respond well to the effect it has on the unaccustomed. _

Jacques spoke again in a long string of his alien words.

_I will deal with those matters later. __Open the doors._

"Très bien, monsieur et son invité. Soyez les bienvenues."

At Mercedony's command, the doors spread open, and Isen's head swivelled about as he took in the grandiose lobby they had entered. Three great corridors extended left, right, and ahead, all with arching ceilings and each lined with thick columns along their walls. In the center of the lobby – which must have been two and a half stories high at its peak – was a fountain above which hovered a large holographic representation of an object so strange that simply looking at it made Isen uneasy. It shifted wildly in appearance no matter which angle it was observed from; he could only describe it as a cube that was somehow more than a cube. And everything in that place was in that same soft white.

The boy was in awe.

_The projection you see is of a tesseract. Fascinating, is it not?_

The Overseer's footfalls and cane echoed in the large subterranean chambers. He halted beside Isen, resting his hands on his cane, and projected a single idea into the boy's mind as he stared at the tesseract fountain, perceiving the shape as it truly was.

_Welcome to my home, Isen. Welcome to Für Immer. _


	10. Chapter 9: No Stone Unturned

Chapter 9: No Stone Unturned 

The Liberation Front convoy rolled down the Interstate.

At the head were found Druid and Enigma, riding in the former's pickup truck and entrenched deep in heated discussions of banking conspiracies. Tailing them was Polaris in her blue Focus, listening to her favourite Carl Sagan audiobooks. And in the rear was the Oldsmobile, helmed by Spock with Crow at his side.

"If you thought _that _was something," said Spock, "get a load of _this_. About two weeks ago, an American graduate student went to Budapest on holiday, but his body was found horribly burned a few days after. The official story is that the guy was mugged and burned alive by some gang, but that's just the government cover-up; it seems were a few people who said they saw him randomly catching fire, though all eyewitness testimonies attesting as much were suppressed by the authorities."

"Spontaneous human combustion?" said Dan. "Damn."

"More like _engineered_ human combustion," clarified Spock. "You've heard of William Bell, right?"

Dan raised an eyebrow.

"The head honcho of Massive Dynamic? The one who hasn't appeared in public in years?"

"Yeah, that one. Would you be surprised if I told you that Massive Dynamic has a branch in Budapest?"

"Not really. MD is a multi-national corporation. They're everywhere."

"Turns out the victim died not too far from the place. My guess? They abducted the student, brought him to the facility, and performed some tests on him."

"How do you figure that?" asked Dan, adjusting the volume on the radio.

"This isn't the first time strange events lead back to Massive Dynamic. There are rumours – some of which I'm sure are founded – that they conduct experiments and research in bio-engineering, genetic hybridization, human weaponization; the works. Though it seems Bell was always into shady business for decades, long before BellMedic was rebranded as MD back at the new millennium. Evidence is sketchy at best, but he might have been involved in secret drug trials in the early 80's, testing dubious chemicals on child subjects."

"I'm surprised the man hasn't been canonized yet."

"Heh, yeah. But here's the _real _kicker. For a few years now, I've been following similar cases involving bizarre deaths and people exhibiting weird powers, as well as uncovering old cases going back to the early 90's, all of which I've been charting on the Altar of Truth. At the time of their deaths, many of these victims would have been born in the late 70's, just in time for the purported drug trials. Coincidence? After everything I've seen, I'd say there are no coincidences. Everything's connected somehow, and I'd wager a lot of it involves Bell."

"Looks like our friend has his finger in everyone's pie," said Dan. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if Bell was responsible for the Shapeshifters at this point."

Spock tapped Crow on the shoulder with the back of his hand, sniggering. "Now _that _would be crazy."

It was the Friday leading into Spring Break, the period they agreed was most suitable for their planned sojourn to New York City. They had all taken time off their jobs for the occasion, resolving prior commitments and responsibilities and freeing themselves of others for their undertaking, before stockpiling on gear and weaponry, covering all their bases for what might lie ahead.

In the weeks following the Hybrid interrogation, the Liberation Front had gathered several times to discuss their plan of attack. Ever the realist, Isaac Keane had offered the strongest contentions, more often than not calling out Dan on the flimsiness of his developing plans; Nelson often chimed in to support him. Becca and Spock were less assertive in their deliberations, but when they did speak, they would both stand by and oppose their leader, depending on the topic being discussed.

Looking back, Dan wondered what Gary might have said, and where he might have stood.

They were going to stay over the entire break. On that, Dan had been adamant; the prospect of leaving without something tangible on the First Wave was unacceptable to him. To maximize success, the team was to be divided in three groups. Enigma was going to stay with a cousin of his, and he would try to find some old contacts to see if they had any dirt on the First Wave. Druid and Polaris would investigate Kurt Lawson, the identity the Shapeshifter they interrogated held prior to the guise of Eleanor Middleton; perhaps they might be able to find something of value there.

As for the Intrepid Spock and Crow, the Son of Sarek knew of a few conspiracy theorists in Manhattan by their reputation, so they were set on paying them visits. Spock had also spread the word on Galaxy Truth, requesting that any followers living in New York let the Front know of any activity they happen to stumble upon. A few had sent in some tips, though they were rather lacking in any definitive connection to the First Wave; even so, they took what they could get, and the Front agreed to hit these locations at night through reconnaissance and stakeout.

Dan's arm hung out the open window, hand tapping against the car to the rhythm of _Back in Black_. Would this venture amount to anything? Was this a fool's errand, a wild goose chase? They'd had some successes in the First Wave front in the past, but he wondered if it was all but blind luck, landing on heads where it could just as easily have been tails. On what face would the coin land this time around? That was ever the question, it seemed.

He smirked to himself. When had he grown so cynical? It was simply par for the course, he eventually figured; everyone starts out an idealist in their line of work, but they all inevitably become either cynics or fervent fanatics. Or perhaps it took a bit of all three to make it through in one piece. He might have mused on the matter further had Spock not spoken after the song had ended.

"Say, speaking of being back in black... has our suited friend surfaced recently?"

"Well," started Dan, "I came home last night to find him looking through my underwear drawer. The moment he saw me, he shoved past me and tried to escape. I tried to catch him, but he eluded me, and I could only shake my fist at him as he fled into the night with a handful of my boxers."

"Huh... that's kind of weird," said Spock, one hand on the wheel and the other stroking his goatee. "Maybe he was trying to procure some DNA from organic residue left in your under –"

"That was a joke, Spock," said Dan, stopping him. "I haven't seen the Man in Black at all."

"Don't seem so down, Crow," suggested Spock at Dan's serious turn. "We'll get him eventually. And when we do, maybe we can give him the good old Eleanor Middleton treatment and finally figure out why he's been following you around."

"Yeah, maybe," Dan told him.

_But it isn't me he's after_, Dan wanted to tell him.

When he had awoken at the hospital a few hours after the explosive finale to the Titan sabotage mission, his comrades had recounted how they found him lying on the ground at that dead-end, the man he was chasing having somehow vanished. A few days later, the Liberation Front had convened for a briefing on the elusive, omnipresent spectre that was the Man in Black. He was bald, and seemed to have no eyebrows. He wore a suit and hat, and often carried around a briefcase. He liked to stand in the distance and observe you through compact binoculars.

And sometimes, if he was feeling generous, he'd shoot you square in the chest with a plasma gun.

_...It is not you that I am interested in. _

The words spoken by that tilting head returned to Dan. He had first seen the Man in Black outside Ex-Tech following their infiltration of a Shapeshifter hideout, whose insides were ripped to shreds by a vacuum grenade. If Dan was not the subject of interest, then it could only be the guy belting a rather terrible Bruce Dickinson as he drove his Oldsmobile en route to New York.

For about a week following the Titan incident, Dan's eyes would search the crowds for suited men where he would have once played Spot That Potential Hybrid, though he soon realized that Baldilocks would never show up to see Dan on his own; if he was watching Crow, it was only because Spock was nearby. There were times when he and Spock would be together, and Dan would think he'd seen a glimpse of the man, but he would always refrain from alerting his comrade.

What was it about Emmanuel Grayson that warranted close examination by the Power That Be? He wasn't quite sure; and until he was, he decided to keep it to himself, figuring that informing Spock wouldn't accomplish much at this point other than to make the guy more paranoid than he already could be.

"Holy crap, Crow!" yelled Spock with crazed eyes. "LOOK!"

Dan jumped in his seat. "What?" He leaned forward, scouring through the window.

"We're almost there," replied Spock casually. At Dan's indignant expression, he burst into a guffaw. "Got you there, didn't I?"

Becca's vehicle was flashing its taillight, following the example of Druid and Enigma in front of her. Spock did the same, drifting onto the turnpike whose nearby sign promised would lead them into New York City. When they reached the overpass, the city revealed itself on the horizon.

"There it is," said Spock. "You ready for this?"

Dan's lips parted to answer, but in the end, he said nothing.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

They met with The Third Eye on a Thursday.

The skies were of slate that afternoon, and the air humid. The weather had been turning increasingly drearier over the course of their stay, which Dan found to be rather fitting considering the luck they were having.

On Saturday morning, they had brought take-out to the Barkley Hotel, where all but Enigma would be staying in for the duration of their operation. After going over their plans one last time, they split up and canvassed Manhattan. By day, they stuck to their assignments; by suppertime, they reconvened at the hotel, getting all members of the Front up to speed on one another's progress. Then by night, they would head out to stake out potential hotspots suggested by Galaxy Truth forum members and the contacts Spock and Crow visited. This was the routine they all rapidly fell into, and the things they found in their search were veering to be just as routine.

Spock had arranged meetings with a handful of renowned conspiracy theorists and Truth-Seekers via the Web, a colourful cast of characters whose knowledge of the First Wave varied as wildly as the topics of their respective devotions. Yet of the many sources to be found in New York, only a few had answered their calling; with something always being preferable to nothing at all, they sought them out.

They had first encountered Joe Kimberly on Sunday, a man whose moniker was _Stargazer_. A thin bespectacled man in his early fifties, he was an ardent ufologist and self-proclaimed expert on all matters pertaining to 'those watching from above'. The man was conveniently located in Manhattan, so Spock and Crow tracked down his apartment in Yorkville.

"Are you of this Earth?" had asked the voice from behind the door.

"My friend here is," answered Spock, "but I myself am not."

Deciding Spock seemed harmless enough, he allowed the pair into his abode, more of a storage unit than a proper living space, with many cardboard boxes stacked throughout, and walls covered in posters. They accepted Stargazer's hats of aluminium foil and seated themselves in his living room. Kimberly recounted how he was abducted not once, but twice (which he chose to remind his visitors of often over the course of their stay), as well of the things he had charted in the night sky in years gone by.

Spock had then asked Stargazer of what he knew of Shapeshifters. He described several alien species with shapeshifting properties, but none of them fit the bill for Hybrids. Spock described the First Wave Hybrids in greater detail – or perhaps more accurately, of the time-travelling Romulans that have come back to oppose the United Federation of Planets, of which both he and his associate Crow were esteemed members of.

Throughout the explanation, Stargazer seemed confused, especially when Spock asserted that he was indeed the progeny of Sarek; he looked to Crow, and he could only shrug, prompting Stargazer to nod with exaggerated motions, playing along with the man who fancied himself a Vulcan. When Spock excused himself to use the bathroom, Stargazer addressed Crow.

"So does he _actually think_ he's Spock from Star Trek?"

"I guess so."

"No offence, but your friend is kind of _crazy_," informed Joe Kimberly in hushed tones, tracing circles around his foil-covered temple with a finger.

Dan nodded slowly with a blank face, at no point the irony being lost to him.

In the end, Stargazer knew nothing substantial on the First Wave, so they moved on to the next contact on their list, Lone Wolf. That Sunday afternoon following Stargazer and a lunch of fulfilling hot dogs, the duo went to sit on a bench in a small park located in the Bronx, just as the instructions Spock received bid them to. After a fifteen minute wait, a man sat on the bench backing theirs, taking out a newspaper as he did.

"Well met, Spock and Crow," said the man. The two made to turn, but Lone Wolf stopped them immediately. "Don't turn. When you speak, make it seem like you're talking to one another. We don't know who might be watching."

They consented, with Spock and Crow addressing one another casually when addressing Lone Wolf, who spoke to them, never taking his eyes off his newspaper. Or so Dan figured he was; having not expected this individual to be Lone Wolf, the Liberation Front members paid little attention to the man who had seated himself behind them, and Dan still had no idea what he looked like, save that he seemed to have short brown hair.

Lone Wolf explained that he was aware of the work Spock and Crow are doing, as word of their exploits has spread rather far in the dark corners of the Web dedicated to conspiracy theories and less than mainstream topics of interest. The two parties spoke without speaking to each other, and while Lone Wolf knew of the Hybrid phenomenon, and knew tons of places where shady activity took place – for it seemed his area of expertise lied in tracking and exposing all sorts of seedy things that unfolded in the New York underbelly – he couldn't say what was First Wave and what was Mafia or black market or bioterrorist; New York was a big city, something Dan saw for himself, and even Manhattan on its own was proving more sprawling than he had anticipated, he who had expected the worst.

He gave the Liberation Front the locations of a few hotspots for _some kind_ of activity, though he made no promises. Their meeting having come to an end, Lone Wolf asked that they stay put for another five minutes after he departed, so as to minimize suspicion for the ever-present forces that might be listening in.

"Hey, thanks again, Lone Wolf," said Crow. "You're a solid guy."

"Oh, I'm not Lone Wolf," said the man. "But I'll be sure to send him your regards. Good luck, gentlemen."

With that, Lone Wolf's representative left, with Dan resisting the temptation to look back; looks like this Lone Wolf wasn't as solitary as the name promised, he thought.

Monday brought them to Irene Lancaster, a woman in her forties otherwise known as The Voice of Dissent. A former journalist, she now spent her free time investigating government corruption and cronyism occurring around the globe, and doubled as a political activist for many issues. Yet it soon became apparent that she knew nothing of the First Wave, for she had misinterpreted Spock's message, having understood the greed and corruption having infiltrated global governments part, but not the machine-man hybrids subverting modern civilization part; the pair left without any worthwhile information and a handful of fliers and pamphlets to political rallies and gatherings that they politely accepted, though had no use for.

Over that first half of Spring Break, they had tried a few other places, but no one was home, and others reneged on their prior scheduled meetings via email, leaving Spock and Crow with nothing much to do from Monday through Wednesday other than walking around town and stay at the hotel to surf the Web for news and clues and read up on new Galaxy Truth updates.

To make up for their slowed activity during the day, they tried to make use of the information they had acquired at nightfall, though their nightly escapades garnered mixed results. The only thing of note the team had witnessed were numerous drug deals and semi-circumspect encounters, a gang shootout whose scene they promptly fled, and a mugging which Spock and Enigma managed to stop, much to the victim's gratitude.

While they were pleased to see that they could be good citizens when the opportunity arose, the Liberation Front was sorely lacking in the progress department. The city was big, and so much was going on; it didn't help that the First Wave knew how to play themselves down. They held all the good cards, leaving Dan to wonder if he would be forced to fold sooner than he would have liked.

But it was Thursday now, and they were on their way to meet with The Third Eye. He had responded to a message on Wednesday, inviting the Front to meet on Thursday; while they were all getting weary from their tireless work and frustrated with the lack of relent from the odds stacked against them, Dan encouraged his teammates to trudge on, just as he trudged on as they parked the Oldsmobile somewhere in Manhattan's Upper Westside, expecting nothing from the one who styled himself The Third Eye.

Dan was pleasantly surprised to see that The Third Eye – who in truth was Tristan Shaw – was a fellow enthusiast of the paranormal and the occult. The trinkets and baubles the man kept around his apartment sparked many a conversation between them as Dan was drawn from one object to the next. Tristan knew his stuff as well, though Dan held his own. When he saw that Spock was standing silently off to the side, visibly uncomfortable at being the outsider, Crow steered things back to business.

As it turned out, The Third Eye knew of the Shapeshifters, though had no idea they were biomechanical hybrids who were invading the globe and securing footholds in society via infiltration of governmental offices. And he had even seen a Shapeshifter take on another's form, once, watching from the shadows.

"Unfortunately, as much as I'd like to, I can't really offer any help," finished Tristan. "This isn't really something that I've followed closely. I can keep an eye out for you and send you everything I have on the subject, but other than that, I'm afraid you're on your own."

Dan half-smirked, Tristan whistling the same tune the others had. They had no choice but to part ways, though The Third Eye did bestow Crow an antique grimoire before wishing them well, which the latter happily accepted even though it served as little consolation. Spock seemed less enthused, however.

"A Vulcan has no need for mysticism," he said, turning the ignition in the Oldsmobile. "He needs only logic and rationality."

And with that, they had exhausted their list of informants. They did receive many messages both before and during their stay in Manhattan, but those who sent them were more interested in preaching and proselytizing their own truths than helping the Liberation Front further explore theirs.

Thursday evening, the Liberation Front convened at the hotel at supper, as they had every day of Spring Break, this time eating some Chinese. The group relayed how their respective days went as they ate. Over the Break, Enigma had tracked down and reconnected with two or three old associates he used to run with back in the day – he was a New York native himself, Dan learned during the preparatory deliberations in the weeks preceding the trip – but Isaac Keane's contact well had dried up as well.

As for Druid and Polaris, they investigated the whereabouts of Kurt Lawson, tracking down his apartment on Sunday, only to find the place no longer had a tenant; as a passing resident explained, his corpse had been found inside by the landlady after environing tenants started complaining about suspicious odours. The duo tried interviewing neighbours to ascertain whether they saw someone visit Kurt around the time he died, though no specifics were to be wrung. With their assignment having hit a dead end, the two had decided to spend the rest of the week up to that point researching any recent deaths in New York and surrounding areas that involved peculiar holes in the palate of the mouth.

They found a few mentions, but nothing that might give them a strong lead on First Wave operations. Not one of the three teams had uncovered anything of value; their suppertime conversations were getting shorter and shorter, and the current one proved the briefest one yet. And their enthusiasm had dwindled as well, as had their expectations, replaced instead by surmounting fatigue and disillusionment.

"We've been here six days," said Enigma, "and we haven't caught squat. It was worth a shot, but I say it's about time we pack it up and cut our losses."

"He's right," cut in Druid, slurping Chow Mein. "Ain't nothing more we can do at this point."

"So you're saying we should give up?" inquired Dan.

"The Shapeshifters will still be here when we leave," offered Polaris.

"Mankind won't be here if they have their way," countered Dan. "Not for long, anyway. Look, I know we're all beat, but I think we should get our money's worth and stick it out for the rest of the Break. We can't pass up missing opportunities. "

The group nodded, all eyes staring out into the distance, and silence reigned over the rest of the meal.

Later, Dan decided he could use some air and gathered his coat.

"Where are you going?" asked Spock, perched before a laptop.

"Out."

"Hey, wait for me!"

The Intrepid Spock and Crow walked side by side as night fell on the city, the latter following the former, and the former following nothing in particular. No words were exchanged for a good ten minutes, both focused more on absorbing the nocturnal sights of the vast and often times intimidating cityscape.

"Remember when Destiny would just hand us a lead on a silver platter?" started Dan. "Those were the good days."

Spock smiled fondly. "I hear you, man. Although, the good days haven't necessarily passed us by."

Dan chuckled, more to himself than anything else.

"What's so funny, Crow?" asked Spock.

"Who are we even kidding?" They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, with Dan facing his comrade. "This whole trip was doomed from the start. You know it, I know it, and so do the others. I'm starting to think that our past victories were nothing but flukes. We should have never come here to begin with."

"What are you talking about?" said Spock, trying to sound encouraging. "We can still fight the good fight."

"We're five people in a city of eight million," said Dan. "We haven't found any Shapeshifter hideouts, discovered any of their passphrases, tracked any metal-and-flesh Shapeshifters on our nightly recons. Face it, Spock. Unless we check every single New York citizen's blood for mercury or do some other ridiculous thing that we don't have the time or resources for, we won't be finding anything more about the Shapeshifters anytime soon –"

"– Shapeshifters?"

A gruff voice resounded from the behind, alarming the two. They turned to see a homeless man handling a shopping cart filled with random junk. His unkempt beard was grey, as was the hair sprouting from the brim of his beanie. His face was worn, and alcohol masked the fainter scents of urine and substandard hygiene, but his eyes were surprisingly sharp.

"You've seen them too?" asked the vagabond.

"Seen what?"

Dan kept his space, not sure whether the man was serious or crazy in the dangerous way.

"The Shapeshifters. Mercury-bleeding fellas. I sure have. There all over the place. City's crawling with them."

Spock and Crow eyed each other.

"How much do you know?" asked Spock, tentative.

"I overheard you just now," he said. "Seems like you're interested in finding them. Well, I know a bunch of places where they like to hide out. I can't be completely sure they're all Shapeshifter hangouts, though, but I wouldn't bet against it." He shook Spock and Crow's hands vigorously, formally presented himself. "Old Roger's what they call me 'round these parts."

"They call me Crow," said Dan. "And this here is Spock."

"Like the fella from Star Trek, right?" He made a clumsy Vulcan salute, thinking Spock's moniker to be clever, but the Son of Sarek reciprocated the salute far more seriously. "Nice nicknames. Not as good as mine, of course, but they got a certain appeal."

"You wouldn't mind telling us where we can find these Shapeshifter hideouts, would you?" asked Crow.

"Tell you? I can lead you there myself, if you like. Free of charge, too, though I wouldn't say no to some remuneration. Tell you what, why don't you boys follow me? Rather not talk about this stuff out in the open, if you catch my drift."

Without waiting for an answer, Old Roger steered his cart down the nearest alley, the one he had no doubt emerged from before accosting them. Spock turned to Crow, who only shrugged and followed the homeless man down the alley, Spock tailing him closely, both figuring that at that point, they had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: Just in case anyone has forgotten, Old Roger was the homeless man who appeared in the prologue to PTS I: The Arrival, the man who witnessed the insertion of John Mosley's crew into the Blue World (Sector-2)._

_+1 for bringing one-off characters back into the fold. ;)_

_Also, don't be afraid to leave reviews/comments/complaints/adoration/criticism/theories. I know you're reading this right now, so don't hold back. 8D_


	11. Chapter 10: Connections

Chapter 10: Connections

In all the realms of the Three-O-Eight, there was no architectural work greater than Fort Awesome.

Resplendent it was with its impenetrable curtain walls and main gate, its fortified central keep and soaring towers, all in bricks of many shapes and colours. Block by painted block it was raised, a monument that was to rival all others that came before it, and all others that were to come. The fabled Crimson Castle of the Legomen at Corridor's End, the log cabin keep of the Bouncing Ball Clan in the Valley of the Sup; even the mighty holdfast of G.I. Joseph the Fourth in the distant Bedlands paled in the shadow cast by Fort Awesome's might.

The four-wheeled war engines of Driver Lords and the fabled platoons of the Green Men, whose tough green armour was said to be impenetrable – as was their green-painted skin, if the tales were true – would crash and falter upon the walls of the fortress like water, should they ever had felt bold enough to try.

It was a place for the strong and the noble, for warriors and knights. No Girls Allowed; the sign beyond the moat made that much clear.

Sir Kenneth of Miller stacked up mismatched blocks on the base of what was to become the central tower. Meanwhile, his companion – who currently stylized himself as the King of Blocks – steadied the foundations of the eastern battlements, having handed to Sir Kenneth all the tasks that the dexterity in his three year-old hands could not hope to meet. The layout of the fortress was a haphazard one, the child of improvisation, yet even Sir Kenneth was impressed with how well it was nonetheless coming along.

He took another block from the pile of raw materials off to the side of the fortress – a red cylinder – and placed it on the ever-growing central tower. The King of Blocks paid little mind to building strategy, placing blocks of any shape wherever it suited him; Sir Kenneth, however, took more care in architectural design. Strange, he thought, how he was enjoying playing with toy blocks as much as he was, and how a grown man such as himself was taking this more seriously than he probably had any business to.

Yet he toiled on, challenging himself to stack the tower as high as he could before gravity could sabotage all of his work. Even now, it began to tilt dangerously, inciting him to correct the bend to the best of his ability.

"Your Highness," said Sir Kenneth. "The central tower is starting to lean, and it might fall any second, now. Should I stop, or should I keep on going?"

"No! Make it _super_ high!" replied the King of Blocks gleefully.

"As you command, my liege," replied Sir Kenneth.

With surgical precision and care, Kenneth placed a block on the tower, then another, each time waiting until the structure stabilized itself before proceeding to the next piece. By this point, the King of Blocks had stopped building altogether, invested instead in the fate of the spire jutting from the heart of Fort Awesome. Both stared in rapture as Sir Kenneth removed a green semi-circular block from the thinning pile of available ones.

"Are you ready, your Highness?" he asked.

His Highness nodded in response, and Sir Kenneth proceeded, sprinkling extra gravitas on his movement and expression for the amusement of his liege. Pinching the semi-circle between his fingers, he let the piece hover over the tower's peak, descending by microns. Even when the blocks came into contact, Kenneth let his fingers remain, removing them with great caution several moments later. The tower seemed fine, but then it started to rock, as though a giant starting to doze where it stood.

"Uh, oh," said Sir Kenneth worriedly. "Quickly, my liege! Use your magic to stabilize it!"

Kenneth splayed his fingers in mock wizardry and narrowed his eyes, and the King soon did the same, both using their combined mental strength to ease the tower into place. They scrunched up their faces and gritted their teeth, squirming where they sat, yet the central spire continued to teeter.

"Come on!" rallied Sir Kenneth. "Harder!"

They redoubled their arcane output, yet the tower continued to defy their will.

"...Come on... Come on...Oh...Oh!"

The tower came to a stop, choosing a slight angle as its final rest position. Sir Kenneth and the King of Blocks froze; it was as though time had slowed to a standstill. Or perhaps it was the tower that came to a standstill, as it showed no further signs of instability.

"Ha! We did it!" exclaimed the King.

"We sure did, champ," replied Kenneth. "Put her there."

The boy reached forward to give the celebratory high-five Kenneth offered. Yet as he did, he lost his balance, teetering forward where he knelt; his knee crashed through the walls, and the tower fell graciously into the castle yard and walls below.

"Aw, man!"

Kenneth laughed.

"Don't worry about it. We should probably start cleaning this up anyway."

He looked down to begin the cleanup; his eyes were greeted by three green circular disks, with a fourth red one on the right.

_Very funny. _

He picked up all four in a single swipe and tossed them into the bucket.

They were nearly done when the door to the apartment unlocked.

"Mommy!"

The boy shot up and darted to the woman, buzzing around her legs as she walked into the kitchen. Kenneth finished cleaning the last of the blocks, then rose to join them.

"We played with cars and we ate peanut butter and jelly and we watched Scooby-Doo and we made a giant castle!"

"That's great, sweetie!" She turned to Kenneth. "I hope he wasn't too much of a handful."

"Not at all, Miss Thompson."

Having put her purse on the counter, she turned to address the boy, cupping his face.

"We need to get you in bed, mister. Go brush your teeth, okay?"

Daniel Thompson acquiesced and scampered to the bathroom in small, pattering three year-old steps.

"I'm sorry to ask you to babysit at the last minute," said Miss Thompson.

"It's no problem, Miss Thompson," said Kenneth. "I didn't have any plans tonight."

"Please, call me Sheryl."

She drifted to the foyer so as to take off her coat and shoes. Kenneth didn't know Sheryl Thompson all that well. They lived in the same apartment complex – she in 308, and he in 216 – and they'd often chat amiably whenever they crossed paths, and once in awhile he would assist her with her groceries if he chanced upon her in the parking lot, but nothing more; yet even with that, he thought her a nice woman, always friendly and hospitable, yet sharp as well.

And while Kenneth wasn't the type to use words like _hot_ – that was Simon Kowalczyk territory – it was plain to see that she was a lovely lady. She had worn a black skirt and a modest white blouse to her interview, and they suited her well. Her brunette hair had been elegantly coifed, and the makeup she used was subdued, yet nonetheless accentuated her features. She wasn't the curvaceous, voluptuous type, and neither did she have Hollywood looks; Sheryl Thompson was instead a lively woman with a down-to-earth charm to her, as well as radiating that unmistakable "mom" vibe that worked to her favour.

For a moment, he wondered why there tended to be an appeal to older women for younger men such as himself, but when his theories became increasingly Freudian, he quickly cast all thoughts of the kind aside.

"So how did your interview go?"

"It was good," she stated. "They said I'll know more in a few days."

She explained how they suffered job cuts two months ago at the Mega Mart she worked at, and how she'd been looking hard for employment in the interim. It certainly explained why she chose Kenneth as the babysitter; she was called in for her most recent interview rather late and unexpectedly, prompting her to seek him out when her habitual babysitter happened to be out of town. They chatted about her work life for a bit, touching briefly upon the state of the market and the economy along the way. Kenneth listened more than spoke, however, nodding and asking follow-up questions; then again, he was always been more for listening and watching.

Sheryl stretched and yawned before opening the fridge.

"Long day?" noted Kenneth.

"Daniel came bursting into my room at six this morning," she said.

"He's quite the energetic fella."

"He sure is," she said, pouring herself some orange juice.

Daniel emerged, baring his teeth and awaiting her approval.

"Good job!" she acclaimed, mussing his hair. "Now let's go put on your pyjamas."

They went to Daniel's bedroom, where Sheryl began undressing her son and reminded to keep still as she slid some pyjamas onto him. Kenneth remained by the doorway, leaning against the sill. A band of airplane-themed print ran around the room, midway up the wall; the walls beneath were navy, and the ones above a light robin's egg blue. There were also toys strewn everywhere, as was to be expected of a young boy. A pretty decent room, thought Kenneth.

"Can Kenneth come play again tomorrow?" asked Dan as Sheryl tucked him into bed.

"I don't think so," said Kenneth. "I've got work tomorrow. But maybe some other time."

"Work?" asked Dan.

"I'm a lab assistant," explained Kenneth. "I help out with science experiments in laboratories."

"Aw, cool! Do you wear a, um, a white coat and goggles?"

"Sure do. Sometimes I even get to wear gloves."

"I wanna be a lab assistant when I grow up," decided Dan. "Can I, mommy?"

"You can be whatever you want to be, sweetie," assured Sheryl.

"Being a lab assistant is hard work, though," noted Kenneth. "You have to be good in math and physics, and study hard at school and university. Are you sure you're up for that?"

"Yup!"

"Well, if you're going to become a scientist, you're going to need all the rest you can get," said Sheryl. "So go to sleep, now, okay?"

She placed a kiss upon his forehead, then went to the door.

"Bye, Kenneth!" said Daniel.

"See you later, champ."

Sheryl closed the door behind her, and she and Kenneth wandered back to the kitchen.

"You know, just last week he said he wanted to become a firefighter," she said, earning a chuckle from him. "He seems to really like you, Kenneth. I know you must be a busy young man, but you should stop by from time to time."

She smiled, yet he could see in her eyes the words behind her words.

"You're divorced," said Kenneth, underlining the absence of a wedding ring on her hand.

She seemed a bit sad, suddenly, and wistful.

"Daniel's too young to remember Roderick," she started. "We separated a few years ago. Since the, Dan hasn't had..." She shook her head, feeling rather dumb. "Oh, I'm sorry... I shouldn't..."

"No, it's fine," said Kenneth. "I understand. Dan's a great kid."

"A special young boy who's growing up fast," she clarified. "Before I know it, he'll have become a young man with a bright future ahead of him."

"A bright future as a lab assistant," reminded Kenneth with a smirk.

Sheryl chuckled, then suddenly seemed to realize something and went to her purse. "Before I forget..."

Seeing her flip through her wallet and remove dollar bills, he stopped her. "That won't be necessary, Miss Thompson - I mean, Sheryl."

"Nonsense," she said. "I'd feel terrible if I let you leave without _some_ kind of compensation."

"No, no, it's alright. This one's on the house."

She smiled at that, and replaced the wallet in her purse, her eyes suggesting she was both impressed and grateful for his modesty.

"I'd better get going," said Kenneth.

"Right; you have lab duty tomorrow. Well, I won't keep you."

She escorted him to the door.

"I'll be seeing you, Kenneth," said Sheryl as her guest stepped outside. "And good luck with your experiments." She narrowed her eyes. "I hope you aren't doing crazy Frankenstein stuff in that lab of yours."

"It isn't anything like that," assured Kenneth as he backed away. "Though feel free to bring torches and pitchforks if ever I cross the line."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Kenneth opened the door to find himself first to arrive at the Lab.

Donning his lab coat, he wandered around, steering clear of the large obstacle course standing at the center of the Lab - the one they had been working on for almost a month - looking for any sign of human activity. A voice resounded from Walter's office, and sure enough, Doctor Bishop was there, speaking on the telephone.

"...You know how it is, William...yes, I suppose so..." Seeing Kenneth, Walter held his finger up as a sign to wait. "Yes...yes...well, when you get back from Berlin, give me a call, will you? And be sure to give them my regards at the conference...okay...bye, now."

He hung up before addressing his assistant.

"Ah, Mister Miller! Always punctual, I see."

"I'm surprised no one's here yet."

"They'll arrive soon enough, I'm sure," said Doctor Bishop. "Though since you're here, you might as well help me start setting things up."

"Speaking of which," said Kenneth, "how are the twins?"

"Let's go have a look, shall we?"

The pair headed to some holding pens in the back of the lab, where animal subjects were usually kept. Noticing their approach, the two lab mice inside came up to the plastic panes and pressed themselves up onto it with their tiny padded paws, observing the humans that stood before them with a focus unlike that of regular mice.

In the weeks following the exposure, death, and autopsy of Test Subject Three – otherwise known as Mike LeRoi – the team had tried to replicate the procedure on three more subjects. They used the same composition of nootropic drugs and the same electromagnetic pulse on every one, and they all exhibited the same hyper-intelligent behaviour as their predecessor Mike did, but like him, they all died soon after exposure.

They made minor adjustment to the drug cocktail for every mouse, seeking to forestall the fatal repercussions of the procedure. There was some improvement; their third subject – a female whom Simon had named Betty Boop – managed to last up to two and a half minutes before cardiac arrest. By then, they realized that drugs would only get them so far, and so an impasse was reached.

It was Bruce Murray who had proposed the solution.

The problem, he posited, was that the brains of the mice could not compute the massive jump in cognitive function and awareness from pre-exposure to post-exposure; they lacked a frame of reference for what they were experiencing. Their instincts were naturally attuned for but one perceptual paradigm, and certain preconceptions about reality that were ingrained into them from birth were violated in the transformation, and the dissonance was too much for them to bear.

The key, then, was eliminating these ingrained traits at birth; or perhaps, Doctor Bishop mused, even earlier.

To this end, they took a pregnant lab mouse and, over the course of its nearly three week gestation period, routinely administered nootropic drugs to the mother, in turn imbuing the developing pups with the formula. And when she began to show signs heralding impending labour, they exposed her to the frequency; there came the characteristic flash and total shedding of bodily hairs. The mother seemed to display that heightened state of consciousness brought on by the transformative exposure, but it was hard to assess to what extent given that she was focused on the birthing of the pups. She died soon afterward; and of the eight pups that were born, only two were alive.

Romulus and Remus, Simon had named them. Because they were inside the womb when the exposure occurred, their hair follicles were not singed off, and so the twin mice, now at just over two weeks old, had healthy coats of fur on their small frames. Though oddly enough, their fur was stark white, unlike the grey-brown worn by their mother; and yet, they showed no signs of albinism.

The only thing distinguishing one from the other was the small black patch of fur that covered the right eye of Remus. Otherwise, they were identical, both biologically and mentally, though not in ways they could ever have expected.

They lacked the need for sleep, for one, always awake and aware. They were also constantly hungry, requiring much more food to sustain their heightened metabolisms. Kenneth was the one who had proposed the increase in necessary food intake was linked to their heightened vibrational state, their molecular structure diffusing much more energy than normal, a theory Doctor Bishop had endorsed. They also seemed to need to excrete and urinate less often, their digestive systems having grown stronger and more efficient so as to wring every last drop of nutrients to sustain their energy demands.

Apart from these quirks, their physiologies were unchanged, all organs accounted for and all fluids bearing no overt changes in composition. And the team had yet to perform basic tests on the mental capacities of the twins, being more focused on making sure they didn't die as their predecessors did, though preliminary brain scans suggested that their capacities were immense in comparison to what they were before.

It was exciting times for everyone in the Harvard Lab, though perhaps none more so than for Kenneth Miller. He would often find himself staring at Romulus and Remus across the Lab as he contributed to setting up the next phase in the Bio-Frequency Trials, only to find the pair staring back.

And when not working on anything pressing, he would wander to the pen and watch the mice out of curiosity, wonderment, and some faint sliver of hope that they would deliver him messages Mike LeRoi had been unable to.

"They sure seem to like you, Ken," Bruce had said, biting into an apple.

Bruce's primary duty it was to handle and tend to animal subjects, so most of the time, he would be in the cage's general vicinity, monitoring vitals or feeding them, or simply watching on. Kenneth sometimes went up to the plastic pane and placed a finger, and the twins would scurry up, propping themselves up and clawing at the human digit; they did that for everyone, though the reaction time was slower and less eager than it was for Kenneth's approaches.

He had held them, once; first Romulus, then Remus. They had sat up in his palms, their black beady eyes deadly alert, heads unmoving save for the periodic twitching of whiskers as they stared up to Kenneth. It was strange to hold them, as he had felt drawn to them in somehow – perhaps as far as sharing a certain kinship – yet he was a bit disquieted by how intent their every look and movements were.

They knew something. He could feel it.

The question was if and when they would let Kenneth in on it.

"I've given it a name," announced Walter suddenly as they double-checked and calibrated the electronics in the obstacle course.

"What?"

"The Golden Frequency. Or the Divine Frequency, if you like. I figure it's a fitting name, seeing as our special frequency is just about 1168 kilohertz." Doctor Bishop grinned. "Interesting how even electromagnetic waves can have an ideal mathematical ratio. I suppose that if the Golden Ratio is the signature God left on His Creation, then the Divine Frequency is its theme song."

"If that's true," said Kenneth, "then He sure knows how to groove."

Walter chuckled. "It's a wonder why He isn't already dominating the charts."

They both laughed. Though few and far between, these one-on-one moments with his mentor were ones Kenneth greatly cherished, savouring the bits of brilliant insight and wisdom Walter Bishop often dispensed and enjoying the challenge of trying to hold his own against the man.

"Here's a thought," raised Kenneth. "What if it isn't a composition we're hearing, but God Himself?"

"The sound of God." Walter stared into space, contemplating the thought. "Wouldn't that be something? I wonder what it would mean, if that was the case."

The question was intriguing, to be sure, but as usual, Kenneth wondered what this Golden Frequency affair as a whole meant, more specifically for himself. If he was the only one seeing the green-red colour pattern (that he knew of, as he had to remind himself now and again), did it mean he had a special role to play in the hierarchy of Creation, or was destined to accomplish some greater purpose? Was God sending him revelations through his rodent prophets? Or what if this was just some expression of apophenia, his brain making obsessive connections between otherwise random occurrences of greens and red in nature?

Both possibilities were disturbing to him, and he at once dreaded and yearned for what truths would come of it all.

The rest of the team soon arrived, first Bruce and Simon, then Alice, and lastly Carla. Always one for productivity, Walter put them straight to work, and soon, their set-up was complete. The tension in the room was palpable, as was the anticipation. Bruce went in back to fetch the stars of the show, placing them in a temporary cage as they made a last examination of the course.

Walter, meanwhile, departed to his office to retrieve a Betamax camcorder.

"Miss Warren, please note the date and time," said Doctor Bishop, steadying the camera. "It is May 21st, 1979. This marks the inaugural experiment in the second phase of the Bio-Frequency Trials. Mister Murray, if you will place Test Subjects Seven and Eight into the first compartments of the course."

Carla wrote down the information provided by Walter on her notepad. The very room seemed to hold its breath as Bruce carried Romulus and Remus from their holding cage to the starting compartments of their respective courses, and exchanges of excited glances abound as Doctor Bishop said what they had all been waiting for over the past few weeks.

"Excellent," he said. "Let's begin, shall we?"

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: Thus far, there has only been one Kenneth-centric per installment, but in The Coming War, there will be three (with two more left to go). So rejoice! 8D _


	12. Chapter 11: TMTOOE

Chapter 11: There is More Than One of Everything

The Overseer had sent him the coordinates on his MultiCell, but September already knew very well where he was supposed to go.

For the past fifteen minutes, he had been standing outside the Kresge Building in the darkness of early morning. He reviewed the definitive past and foreseeable futures, transitioning between both modes of temporal perception, and he could see that Walter was the only one inside the Lab in the unfolding present. It was an optimal time to enter and retrieve Doctor Bishop without being noticed.

Why was it so difficult to move, then?

Almost twenty-four years have passed since the moment of his intrusion, the one that sent the Directive careening off its meticulously calculated rails. This wasn't the same place, he knew; he was thinking of another world. Even so, this building's facade was identical to its counterpart's, and so to be standing in its shadow once more was an odd experience, made more so by the realization that he was positioned at the same point he was twenty-fours ago, the night he contemplated watching Doctor Bishop creating the cure from a closer vantage point.

The Witness verified his pocket watch; the hands were ticking, always ticking.

He proceeded inside.

The corridors were familiar, as were the stairwells; even the echoes of his footsteps were playing a tune he knew. He came to a halt before the door, the one he had entered only once before. He crossed the threshold; this time, Walter was not regulating chemical reactions, but parsing through some documents.

"Astrid...I found it!"

September looked around. He had observed outside that Agent Farnsworth was not in the building. Could his perception have failed him?

"The original manuscript," continued Walter, "with the extra pages! I was right. Listen to this!"

It seemed Walter did not notice the suited man's presence. Doctor Bishop read aloud from the document he clutched.

"...Our children are our greatest resource. We must nurture them, and protect them; we must _prepare_ them... so that they may one day protect us. You see, I was –"

Walter turned, but his words caught when he saw September standing before the steps. The Witness removed his fedora – always be polite when dealing with the humans, the Overseer had taught them.

"Hello, Walter," he greeted.

"...Hello," replied Walter meekly.

"It is time to go."

Confusion, worry, fear; Walter's face spoke of them all.

"Is it time?" he asked casually.

September tilted his head. How could the man have already deduced the reason for this visit? Walter fidgeted with the documents, nodding as he did, processing this sudden ultimatum. He turned; for a second, he hesitated, eyes flittering everywhere as his mind raced, but he then pressed on.

"I'll go get my coat," he said.

The man grabbed his coat and scarf lying on a nearby table. He stopped, giving a final backward glance at the disorderly space that was his laboratory. Then he approached September, who replaced his hat, and Walter followed the suited man with the briefcase out the door.

The pair made their way down the corridor, Walter shuffling into his coat. The Witness could sense the man's unrest, and as the first sparks of Passive Calibration took effect, September perceived glimpses of the swirling torrent of thoughts and memories that was Walter's incomplete brain.

"I always knew this day would come," said Walter.

"What do you mean?"

"The price. The price I have to pay for my sins. That night at Reiden Lake... I had committed an atrocity. I always knew you would one day come and take me to face my fate. To be judged."

The Witness halted, as did Walter a few paces ahead. He pivoted, his eyes falling to the floor.

"This does not concern the Boy," clarified September.

Walter's head rose as though recovering from a daze.

"It doesn't?" He seemed perplexed, then elated, though he quickly reeled it in so as to appear more composed. "Yes, well... That's good news. But if this isn't about my son, why _did_ you come for me?"

"You will know soon enough. Come, the car is waiting."

"Car?"

They found the black Bentley parked on the edge of the parking lot. It was protocol to use vehicles when transporting humans; with their near total bond to the Equation, to phase them through the RLTB risked inflicting great physical and mental damage, perhaps even death to those of lesser constitutions.

Walter didn't seem to mind skipping spatial relocation, though.

"My, my," said Walter in the backseat once they were inside. "You sure know how to ride in style."

With an energetic discharge from this thumb, the vehicle rumbled to life, and they were off.

"We will be taking a train to reach our destination," announced September once they were en route. "Once there, the journey will take approximately three hours in total, by my estimate. You may sleep now, if you wish."

Walter nodded. He closed his eyes and tried to rest, but September saw in the rearview mirror that Doctor Bishop seemed agitated; it caused the Witness some discomfort to see him in this state, and he was eventually compelled to speak.

"You are troubled," he noted.

"Oh, it's nothing, I assure you," said Walter. "It's just..." He paused, but continued, albeit tentatively. "I-I-I know you're bringing me to someplace important; though, if you simply wanted to have a night on the town, hitting all the fancy establishments and what have you, that's fine too, although I wished you would have called beforehand if that is the case. B-but, what I'm trying to say is that –"

"– you want to see the Boy."

With the temporary telepathic bridge formed out of Passive Calibration strengthening every second, he could see in his mind the echoes of the contents of Walter's own, and caught pre-emptive glimpses of his intentions.

"Y-yes." Walter's face fell. "I make it a point to visit him every once in awhile. You know, ever since that night. I promised him I would. And it's that time of year, again. I..." He seemed ashamed, suddenly. "... I can't quite remember which day it happened, exactly, b-but I know it's that time again."

"I remember."

He chose not to interrupt Walter to tell him that the date in question was five days past.

"When I was incarcerated, I couldn't go to the outside, naturally," continued Walter, "but ever since I got out, I've been hailing taxi cabs to ferry me there, to make up for my long absence. I know we're doing important work – or so I assume – so I fully understand if we couldn't make a short detour. But it's simply that it's that time of year and I...I promised him..."

September paused as he ran a few calculations in his head.

"We are already close to the train station. If we made this detour now, we would be losing an hour at minimum, and we are short on time."

Walter eyes dropped, though he nodded dutifully.

"Yes, of course. I understand. We have more important things to deal with at the moment, after all. But for the record, Mister Watcher, I must say that this whole thing is rather inconvenient."

Doctor Bishop ceased speaking, crossing his arms and gazing into the night. September glanced at the rearview mirror. He was incapable of processing the emotional component of Walter's thought processes, but the logical, sequential aspect informed him that he had slighted Walter. He gripped the wheel tighter. The thought that he would be making Walter displeased was in itself unpleasant. And yet, he could not risk jeopardizing the mission by compromising their schedule. The Witness stared back repeatedly at Walter.

A few minutes passed when Walter stirred, alarmed; the vehicle was speeding up.

"But perhaps...if we hurry," said a voice devoid of tone, "we can go visit him and still make it to our final destination before it is too late."

After realizing what was going on, Walter reached up to clasp and pat September's shoulders over the seat.

"Thank you, my friend," he said. He then leaned back, looking out the window with a stare in equal parts eager and forlorn. "Thank you."

"...Yes."

_My friend. _

The Witness was relieved; balance had been restored between them. Yet even as he made a turn down a road to reorient the vehicle in the opposing direction, he wondered what the consequences of obliging Walter's request might be, especially when a minute later, the man addressed the Witness once more.

"Do you think we can stop for breakfast on the way there? I'm rather starved."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Day had broken by the time they reached the cemetery.

The skies were overcast as the Bentley rolled into Cedar Hill Cemetery, a quaint place hidden deep in Cambridge. After parking the car along the primary lane, September peered into the rearview mirror; Walter had fallen asleep shortly after breakfast, and his body still lay curled up and limp as his head rested against the window.

"Walter." The man did not stir, and the Witness called again. "Walter."

September exited the vehicle. The grassed expanses on either side of him were riddled with impeccably lined and rowed tombstones; trees stark and devoid of leaves lined the perimeter of the cemetery grounds, and pockets of thinner ones sprouted around the area where they pleased.

The air was cold, running fingers over September's exposed scalp, but he paid no mind to it.

At Walter's request, the pair had stopped at a breakfast place along the way, spending forty minutes there (a period that mostly consisted of Walter talking as he ate). It took an additional twenty minutes to reach Cedar Hill, during which Walter had drifted to sleep, exhausted after having stayed up all night at the Lab.

The Witness paced around the car and opened the back door to Walter's seat. September first prodded the man, then shook his shoulder; it was only after the application of a kinetic jolt from his fingertips did Walter awaken with a start.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. September perceived associations light up in Walter's brain, memories of times he had been shocked, mostly by others, but a few out of deliberate self-infliction.

"We have arrived, Walter."

Doctor Bishop got out of the car, throwing a dangling scarf end over his shoulder. He surveyed the area for a moment, and after gathering his bearings, the old man began to shuffle along, September close behind.

Noticing his companion, Walter stopped.

"I think it would be best if I go alone," he said.

"...Yes. I will remain here. But remember, we cannot linger here long."

Walter nodded. He waded into the sea of graves, weaving between the stones until he found the one he sought; September was well out of earshot, but he could see Walter move slightly as he spoke before the resting site of his long-dead son.

Once more, the Witness was struck by the familiarity of the place he found himself in. He had been present at the Boy's funeral all those years ago, standing some distance away in fedora and shades, watching as they lowered the casket into the earth. That was before his mistake, and before he had ever interacted with the Walter Bishop of Sector-2 directly.

Walter and Elizabeth Bishop had once stood close to where Walter was standing now. Curious, he employed his temporal perception, making it so that the echoes of the past ceremony overlapped the present vigil, watching the same man stand solemn before his son's gravesite at different points in time.

The Lab, the Cemetery; he was walking a path he trod once before, revisiting all the old places. Nature was replete with cycles, he knew, yet this one was more intriguing than most. Was there any significance to this pattern? He had once hoped that he would eventually be able to move on from his original mistake, but it seemed that the events of 1985 were not ready to let him go, pulling him down into their icy depths just when he thought he would surface.

Standing at Cedar Hill Cemetery on that brisk morning, he realized grimly that he would never break free from his burden.

He perked up his head at the sound of laughter. It seemed Walter was in the middle of relaying some humorous anecdote to the Boy, perhaps something that happened recently, perhaps a memory of their brief time together; so far away, the range of Passive Calibration was wearing thin, too thin to fully visualize the contents of his mind.

It occurred to September that he had affected Walter's life more profoundly than he realized. He knew the Guardians had had a hand in shaping history, but any causal chain presently in effect could be traced back to Reiden Lake one way or another. Walter's attempt to save the Peter from Sector-1, the death of his assistant Carla Warren, his institutionalization, the insanity brought on by the removal of brain tissue; it was a causal chain of September's own inadvertent engineering.

He remembered how Walter once was, a man of resolve and brilliance, of great ambition; but like the temporal echoes of a funeral past, that man was now but a silhouette, a ghost, forevermore lost to a history September had denied him. He wondered what Walter would think of the Witness if he understood the full extent to which September's interference had caused him to suffer. Would he still consider him a friend?

The suited man wasn't sure.

It took about seven minutes for Walter to finish his business. He returned to the path where September stood, hands thrust deep in his pockets, his shoulders curled forward to quell the cold.

"I'm ready to go, now," he said.

The two made their slow way back to the Bentley, Walter striking a conversation as he did.

"He was pleased to see me. And I sent him your regards as well. I appreciate you doing this for me, Mister Watcher. You're a good friend."

"Yes," said September. "And..." He hesitated greatly before continuing.

"What is it?"

They stopped.

"...You are my friend as well."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Walter, patting the suited man on the shoulder before walking ahead.

Despite his reservations, he thought it best if Walter knew in the event he didn't already. It was strange, he thought, how seeking to remain in Doctor Bishop's good graces was so important to him. He didn't experience this with any other human; could it be tangible evidence that they were indeed friends, like in the films and the videos and the written accounts in the books?

_ Friends._

The Witness felt odd, a tingle taking root in his sternum. He understood apprehension and anxiety, which he experienced when balance was disturbed, and relief, when it was restored; he knew physical pleasure and pain, satisfaction when things unfold as intended and disquiet when they did not, and curiosity and fascination when he witnessed new things. But that was as far as his emotional palette extended, and his current state lied beyond that normalcy.

It was pleasant, and there was relief and satisfaction, but it was more than that; balance was disturbed, yet not in a way that engendered anxiety. By the time they reached their ride and rolled out of Cedar Hill, he decided that perhaps this indeed _was_ balance, everything being in its right place.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

They were on a train thirty minutes later.

"I spy with my little eye...something red–"

"– Is it the window curtain?"

Walter squinted.

"Now I _know _you're cheating, you sly devil," he said with a grin, pointing in mock accusation. "How _do_ you do that? It's as though you know what I'm going to say before I even say it."

It was true that he could foresee Walter's actions and words, but the man's eyes would have given away the target even without the effects of Calibration. This game was an interesting diversion, thought the Witness; not very challenging, but Walter seemed very amused by it, and so he was pleased as well.

"You have a keen eye, Mister Watcher," he noted. "In fact, you remind me about someone I once knew. A very observant and brilliant young man, he was, qualities you also possess." Doctor Bishop burrowed his brows. "I can't quite remember his name... But I'm sure you and he would get along like peas in a pod." A pall of sadness cast itself over his eyes. "It's rather unfortunate what happened to him, though."

September couldn't conceptualize the individual in question either; the area of Walter's mind housing the memories was a cloud, a haze, blurred and indistinct. Yet Walter's mind was riddled with such areas, and so the Witness prodded no further, deciding it was of no consequence.

"When will we arrive, exactly?" asked Walter.

"By my calculations, we will be arriving at our destination in forty-two minutes."

Forty-two minutes later, the duo disembarked the train in Worcester. Another black Bentley awaited them, a Proxy chauffeur September had called in to ferry them just outside East Douglas, located a half hour to the south. The ride was uneventful, Walter keeping to himself as their final destination approached.

It was almost four hours since he first retrieved Walter, and two and a quarter hours past the original intended arrival time, that the two at last reach Doctor Bishop's old beach house. The clouds had long parted so late in the morning; the sun hung high in the skies, and the rippling waters of the large river beyond were sparkling.

After being dropped off, the vehicle sped off, no longer being needed; September would not be leaving by human means, and he did not expect Walter to leave anytime soon.

"Walter, you must listen," said September as they stood on the beach's edge. "Do you remember the time I visited you in the year of 1988? Do you remember what we discussed, and what I instructed you to do?"

Doctor Bishop squinted, gazing out to the river.

"I can't say that I do."

"Come. Perhaps your memory will resurface along the way."

They abandoned the road for the beach, one's steps a trailing saunter and the other's rhythmic and methodical. September rested his hand in his suit pocket, holding a silver dollar in his fist. In the years following the Reiden incident, the Overseer had tasked September to pay Doctor Bishop a few visits, each time instructing Walter to accomplish some task in the future or sharing key information with him, all of it to set up contingency plans in case certain events came to pass.

Once, he came to Walter to inform him to never allow the Boy to return to Sector-1; another, to tell him to disassemble and scatter the components of his teleportation device for safekeeping, the one he had built to retrieve a doctor through time for his ailing son, and the one Jones and his crew had assembled to escape Wissenschaft.

In 1988, he came to Walter, asking him to store his inter-reality breach-sealing device somewhere safe. Knowing of Walter's future incarceration, September had Walter place something significant on the box where he hid the device, something to jog his memory, should the contingency be enacted. Doctor Bishop decided to use the silver dollar the Boy was fond of, suspecting that September's interest in the sealing device was related to the Reiden incident. Together, they had travelled to the beach house, and September watched as Walter stuffed the case in the basement and placed the dollar on its surface.

And he was leading Walter there just as he did once before. The cycle continued.

As they surmounted the beach's gentle slope, the house came into view, as though rising from the sands themselves. The windows were all boarded up, the place having fallen into disarray from almost two decades of neglect. September halted, as did Walter.

The Witness turned his head, having already brought out his hand on their ascent.

"Do you recognize this?"

Walter looked down to see September's open palm, a silver dollar resting upon the smooth, pale skin. He took it between his fingers, slightly alarmed.

"How did you get this?" asked Walter.

He didn't remember; it was plain to see in the eyes of the Witness. Yet with the Non-Interference Protocol in effect, he could not divulge too much.

"It is similar to the one you are thinking of," tried September, "but it is from a different place."

Walter's brain tried to connect the dots, but couldn't quite form any clear picture. It was imperative that he remember the reason he was here through his own recollection. Another hint would be needed.

"There is more than one of everything."

Just as he finished the sentence, September could already see the repercussions they were having on Walter; the man's mind was racing, recalling distant memories and poised to start asking questions, questions that September could not answer, and questions Walter was not meant to ask. He had to suppress the desire for answers, redirect his thoughts to the task at hand.

"I have said too much," said September. "I am not supposed to get involved."

The bald man swivelled his head to the beach house; if such words worked for July, then perhaps the same would work for him. And indeed, Walter's mind quickly cast aside his intrigue in favour of whatever urgent task he was meant to carry out.

"I have taken you as far as I can," continued the suited man. "Does this house look familiar to you?"

"Yes," said Walter.

The Witness looked to his companion.

"Do you remember what you have to find?"

Walter looked back. He tried so desperately to unify the shards of his fractured memory, but could only offer an expression of confusion and shame, lips quivering and head shaking.

"You_ must_ try to remember," urged September. "There is not much time."

Nothing more could be done without violating the Non-Interference Protocol; Walter would have to figure things out on his own.

And so September departed, making his way down the beach. It was probable that Walter would eventually find the device. But when? Jones was currently on the prowl, jumping from Soft Spot to Soft Spot in an attempt to form a stable inter-reality gateway, August monitoring his movements at every turn. If they acted too late, the Veil would weaken even further, and the Collision would inch that much closer.

After watching Walter disappear into the beach house, September took to the RLTB, vanishing from the shores, thinking of his friend.


	13. Chapter 12: Ghosts of the Past

Chapter 12: Ghosts of the Past

The Overseer spoke.

_This way, Isen. I have disabled the Temporal Acceleration Field, so we will be working far slower than usual, and every second counts. _

Mercedony walked towards the eastern hall, the tapping of his cane reverberating in the lobby. Isen lingered at the Tesseract Fountain, and the Overseer caught on.

_I will give you a more comprehensive tour at a later time. Follow me._

The boy did as he was bidden, falling in line behind his host, his hands clenching the straps of his race car backpack. His head made wide arcs as he analyzed the details of Für Immer's interior, the pristine, smooth walls and columns, the lamps he saw overhead, the tiles under his feet; he wondered how long it took Mister Richards to build all of it.

_That is a complicated question_._ Suffice it to say it was a labour of many days and none. _

After the forty or so meters that comprised the length of the eastern hall, the walls tapered to form a narrower space that fed into a wide flight of steps leading down. At the bottom, they found themselves in an octagonal chamber where two hallways branched diagonally to the left and right. On the wall between them was etched in black the same symbol Isen saw in the castle cellar and on the elevator platform, though there was a message inscribed beneath it in symbols unknown to the boy.

At Isen's inquiry, Mercedony explained that the left corridor led to the place where he developed useful things for Mister Reed and his friends to use in their work, and where he tested them as well.  
They took the corridor to their right.

The pair followed the contours of the walls as they bent forty-five degrees to the left. Isen could sense a vibration, ever so faint, that grew the further they went. The walls made another bend, this time to the right; on the outer corner of this turn, which was slightly indented into the wall was a large window where the humming was at its strongest, yet even then only just perceptible.

Curious, Isen scampered ahead and propped himself up to glance inside. It was a spacious octagonal chamber extending a floor below, carved of the same ivory walls that seemed to characterize all of Für Immer. Directly across the room on the upper level was another window, revealing the existence of an observation room. And in the center below was a round dais. From its heart jutted a circular pedestal upon which was secured via a metallic base a cylindrical object made of metal; blue light slithered up the spiralling groove engraved into its bullet-shaped body.

Isen could also see some black disks affixed to various points in the walls of the room, all oriented toward the central pedestal.

The Overseer came to rest at Isen's side.

_That?_

_It is the Beacon. It is a very important tool in my work. The black disks you see scattered around the room form a dampening field to diminish the Beacon's frequency output; the vibrations you feel are the minute traces that manage to seep through. _

Isen stared at the Beacon. It was beautiful, yet the vibrations made him feel a little dizzy; he was glad the disks were there to dull the cylinder's radiating energy.

_Made?_

_Yes. I created the Beacon._

Isen craned up his head to look at the tall man that was Mister Richards; he seemed rather contemplative all of a sudden as he stared into the Beacon's housing chamber, hands resting on his cane.

And his eyes...

It wasn't that his eyes were but mere whites, as he had previously thought, peering up beneath the brim of the Overseer's fedora; rather, they were flittering about so fast that the irises could barely be seen, appearing as milky blurs that could scarce be said to even be there.

The Overseer's head turned down to Isen.

_This way, child. We are just about there. _

There was a corridor that extended to their perpendicular left, following the contours of the Beacon's containment chamber, but they instead continued forward. Featureless doors stood on either side of them, and Isen wondered what lied behind each as they surpassed them.

Mercedony went to the very end, to the final door, and as he turned his attention to the adjoining keypad, Isen caught a glimpse of the head of the Overseer's cane, a translucent amber orb around which coiled a golden serpent biting its own tail. His gloved hand was a blur as it input a lengthy sequence of characters into the keypad; Isen knew that the fingers were moving very fast, but he somehow found himself able to follow most of the strokes.

In a flash, the keypad chimed, and the blank panel that acted as the door slid into the wall. As they entered, the room came to life. Lights flickered on, and a low hum crescendoed as the machinery and equipment inside powered themselves up.

In the center of the room's right half was an examination bed, much like the ones Isen had seen during his stay at Miss Winick's hospital. A nearby table had some tools sprawled on its surface, and above the bed were a couple of mounted arms folded against the ceiling. In the room's left half was a featureless white slab rising from the floor. And pressed against the left and back wall were an assortment of monitors on tabletops and boxy equipment with multitudes of blinking lights in various colours, whereas a door was set in the right wall.

The Overseer placed his fedora and gloves on a table beside the door and had Isen place his baseball cap and backpack there as well. He rested his cane against the nearby wall as well, after which he went to the slab on the left with just the barest hint of a limp on his right leg. By running his fingers over the surface, tilted holographic displays appeared, hovering forty five degrees relative to the slate.  
_  
Jacques, create a link to the Empyrean Interface in the Examination Room terminal. _

"Et voilà," said Jacques as a few more windows appeared in the holographic field.

Isen looked around at the sound of the robotic male voice.

_Who Jacques? Man?_

_Oh, no. Jacques is a virtual interface system. Think of him as a digital butler of sorts. _

Something clicked for Isen; the reason he couldn't previously intuit the meaning behind Jacques' words was because he wasn't even a conscious, living entity. The boy directed his thoughts to the ceiling.  
_  
Jacques?_

"Hello, Guest," chimed the artificial voice in English, much to Isen's relief. "Might I be of assistance?"  
_  
No guest. Isen. _

"Yes, of course. Please accept my apologies, Mister Isen."

The boy smiled to himself excitedly from the novelty of the voice; he could sense the Overseer's amusement as well, especially as Isen took a different approach.  
_  
Hey, understand?_

"Ich verstehe Sie sehr gut," replied Jacques.  
_  
As you can see, he is programmed to speak the language he is addressed in_. _Or in this case, the language closest to one's thought patterns_. _Rather something, is he not? I made him myself. Please,  
make yourself comfortable on the bed over there._

Isen did as he was told, hopping onto the thin cushion, legs dangling over the side. Mister Richards interacted with the projections for a few moments, then approached Isen, who was holding his arms, stomach knotted in apprehension.  
_  
You need not worry, Isen. I am simply going to conduct a few tests to evaluate your current state. No harm will come to you._

He ventured to the table on the side, hands gliding over the selection, settling for a nondescript cylindrical object.  
_  
I would have offered for you to rest after your long journey, but I already suspect that you do not require sleep. Which is all the better, as there is much to be done._

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

It had been a long time since he had examined so fascinating a specimen.

The first thing the Overseer did was conduct a few superficial tests, checking Isen's breathing and pulse. He shone light into the boy's pupils, and they reacted well enough, though having lived underground for seventy years, the adaptations formed there still lingered. He also took a small rod and trailed it before Isen's blue eyes, which followed its movements. Mercedony tried moving it around faster and faster, and found that while the boy's eyes had trouble following, a quick mental probe of the visual center of his brain showed that he fully registered the movements despite not being consciously aware of doing so, which was exactly what the Overseer expected to see.

The first of many mental boxes were checked.

He then extracted blood and saliva from the boy, as well as small tissue samples. Isen was uncomfortable, but the Overseer reassured him throughout. He brought the various samples to the appropriate scanning machines, beginning an analysis process two hours in length. At various points, Mercedony would go up to a panel in the wall, stare at it for a few seconds, then open it, where food would be waiting for him. Isen didn't want any, however, so the Overseer was left to wolf down his snacks and glasses of tepid water summoned from what Isen thought of as the Magic Box.

And after the analysis was complete, the results were routed directly to the Overseer's holographic workstation, and Isen chatted with Jacques as the Overseer reviewed the information.

Isen was superficially as old as Mercedony remembered, if not a few years older, but his exposure to Void energy had essentially frozen him in time. Senescence had long since halted, blood work and tissue scans showing that the Hayflick Limit in his cells was almost entirely absent. Of course, being partially detached from the Equation was also a factor, an attribute the Overseer could detect clearly without the aid of technology, and an attribute that caused Isen's relationship to space and time to be different than that of humans and other living beings. His impartiality was less so than the Witnesses, evidently; yet to the Overseer's surprise, it was slightly lesser than the range he suspected the Caretaker's Guardians lied in, a detail that he found to be most intriguing.

The boy's immune system was weakened, however, and his hemoglobin had configured itself to absorb and retain more oxygen than normal, two among many peculiarities that arose from having dwelt in his previous environment. It also seemed that his digestive system had suffered from lack of use and nutrients, his appetite all but vanished from lack of consistent eating; while Isen's state could keep him alive indefinitely, the lack of proper sustenance had made his body weak and frail.

The question of when Isen was first exposed quickly emerged as the most pressing one. It was hard to say when it happened by simply glancing over the data feeds. Isen looked barely older than he had been the last time they had crossed paths; though of course, he was far older than he appeared by this point. His biology was loathe to surrender its secrets, but soon enough, the Overseer managed to pinpoint certain key markers and managed to establish a general timeframe for the exposure event. The period he ended up with was troubling; another significant event happened around that time, and certain pieces began to fall into place.

The exhaustive examination of Isen felt sluggish to the Overseer – he missed the hum of the Taffy, as his Witnesses had named it – but he could not deny that it felt good to be in a lab again; he didn't have much reason to visit the laboratories nowadays. And until he determined the precise nature of Isen's condition, he was unwilling to turn the Taffy on.

The Overseer then had Isen lie flat on the bed, and with a few inputs in the holographic displays at his station, one of the mounted arms on the ceiling extended down. Mercedony went up to configure and secure the tip, a scanner with multiple modes of operation. He programmed its behaviour at the workstation, and it slowly hovered over Isen from head to toe, to head again, emitting a thin band of light over the child's body. The arm repeated this for each type of scan, assessing the boy's radiation levels, body temperature, and any peculiar energy emissions; Mercedony found all the readings to be consistent with what they might be for a living thing exposed to Void energy.

Following the numerous scans, Mister Richards turned his attention to Isen's brain. He had the scanning arm fold back up, only for another to descend. Mercedony went up to him and secured the arm's accessory over the boy's head, two curved extensions wrapping around the head above the ears and one running over the skull in a tri-pronged helm. The boy eyed the contraption nervously.

_You will not feel a thing, I promise. Hold still, yes?_

Isen sat erect, the ring hovering around his head as though a crown. The data from the scanner was fed into the Overseer's work station, and charts showing active brainwave patterns appeared, as well as a three-dimensional model of the boy's brain with accompanying cerebral activity being shown in real-time. Though fully conscious, Isen's brain waves were found in the Theta Wave range, unlike the Beta Wave rhythms found in ordinary waking humans, for whom Theta Waves only appeared in waking children at very young ages and in sleep cycles for humans of all ages.

It was clear that Isen required no sleep, and had not slept from the moment of exposure onward. Sleep was a significant evolutionary adaption, allowing for bodily restoration and memory consolidation; with Isen's vibrational state having been augmented, the brain was being fed enough excess energy to handle these intensive necessities while awake, eliminating the need for sleep entirely.

And so it was that after four hours of rigorous testing and meticulous compilation and observation of data came the part Mercedony had been anticipating most of all. He came to Isen at the examination bed, lifting the scanning helm and pressing a button on the arm's side, causing it to fold back up against the ceiling in its original position.

_I have good news, Isen. We are all done here. How do you feel?_

_Um...okay._

_Good. Now, please follow me._

The Overseer sauntered to the table where his things lay.

_Where? Do what?_

_I am going to help you remember._

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_Jacques? Reactivate the Temporal Acceleration Field in all sectors on my command._

"Quand vous serez prêt," stated Jacques.

He turned to Isen with those pearl whites of eyes that saw everything.

_Ambient time is about to accelerate by several factors, so you might feel slightly uncomfortable. Do it now, Jacques._

All of a sudden, Isen felt a strong pull on his body and a dizzying rush in his head as his physical and mental faculties stabilized with this new temporal climate. His hand went to his chest, looking for changes, but he couldn't find any.

_Are you alright, Isen?_

_...Yes. Okay._

_Excellent. This way. _

Mercedony had decided to reset the fields while still at the laboratories in the event Isen should somehow suffer adverse side-effects. This not being the case, they proceeded to retrace their steps back to Für Immer's main lobby.

_I do not have a room specifically designed for what I have in mind, but there is an area in the Academy that should suffice. _

They strolled past the Tesseract Fountain in direction of the western hall. It was just as large as the hall leading to the labs and the R&D sections, and the staircases leading down were arranged in the same fashion, but they were greeted by a different sight upon reaching the lower level. They came to a small foyer; on the wall before them was that symbol with the squiggled markings underneath, and the left wall was absent, opening to a large room. It was perhaps almost as big as the entrance lobby, though far more furnished. There were shelves bursting with books, leather couches and sofas off the center, some tables, what appeared to be a kitchen area in the corner with countertops and cabinets and three fridges...

_Whoa! _

_Yes. This is the recreation room I made for my Witnesses when I was still training them. There is also a screening room for visual and auditory entertainment and a gymnasium for physical activities adjoining this area. You can wait here while I retrieve something in my quarters. If you should require anything, do not hesitate to notify Jacques. _

The Overseer returned to the foyer and disappeared up the stairs, the tap of his cane growing fainter until it dissipated entirely.

For some time, Isen simply stood there, looking around. It was very silent, much like the dark place he was sealed in before; he found it comforting in its familiarity. Slowly, he began to explore the recreational area while making as little sound as he could, feeling it was better not to disturb the silence.

He sat on one of the leather couches near the room's center, trying to picture Mister Reed and his friends lounging and discussing important things. He then moved on to the kitchen in the corner. When he discovered that all the stores were empty, he ventured to the bookshelves. They had tomes in English and German, as well as many other tongues, most of them unknown to him, but there were a few names and titles here and there that elicited an inkling of recollection, as though he had seen similar words somewhere, once. And he found other shelves housing board games and trinkets on the wall to the left of the room's entrance, against the wall.

A portion of the wall on the left side of the room was indented, within which divergent passageways ran parallel behind the wall. Down the right, the boy stumbled upon the gymnasium Mister Richards had referenced, a gigantic, featureless room with additional doorways interspersed along its walls; further investigation revealed the existences of rooms that might once have stored equipment, and a corridor leading to two swimming pools, one large, the other long, both whose waters had long since been emptied.

Returning to the recreation area, he took the opposing passage and ended up in a room with twelve seats raised on two successive elevating tiers, all facing a large blank screen that covered the majority of the wall. He sat in the seat nearest to the entrance, placing his backpack beside him. Embedded in the armrest was a polished black orb, which he touched; his head darted up in alarm as the lighting dimmed and a set of images and symbols he didn't understand appeared on the screen.

Seeing this, Isen touched the spherical dial again, then again, cycling through the onscreen menu and not quite knowing what he was doing, until suddenly a video clip began to play. The film was without colour, and depicted a man with a patch of hair on his upper lip, and a hat and suit; though he did not speak, he performed a series of humorous antics played to music that filled the room.

It was here that Mister Richards found him, watching Charlie Chaplin shorts and smiling at the screen, the room drowned in the wonderment being liberally broadcast from the boy's being. Isen didn't notice the additional presence until the video concluded, where he saw the Overseer was now holding a briefcase in addition to his cane.

_I see you are enjoying yourself. Jacques, terminate the Viewing Room interface._

The screen went blank, and the lights returned to their original intensity. Mercedony then led Isen out of the room and across the recreational area; corridors were found in either corner of this side of the chamber, and they entered the one to the right.

Along the way, they passed what Mister Richards described as the Classroom – where he taught his Witnesses many things, he explained – before ducking into a short passage with twelve doors, six on either side. He ushered Isen through the third one on the left, entering a cubic space with nothing but a table and a chair.

_These rooms are where I administered written examinations to my Witnesses. This one was once assigned to Mister Reed, as it happens.  
_  
He had Isen sit in the white chair that had belonged to September and placed his briefcase on the floor. He leaned his cane on the wall before going into the room across the lane to fetch an additional chair, placing it on the other side of the table. Mercedony seated himself there, lugged the briefcase onto his lap, opened it, and removed a circular module which he placed at the center of the table before discarding the briefcase.

_Isen, listen carefully. The great majority of your memories have been repressed; I suspect a traumatic event is the cause, which may also be linked to your muteness. I will ask you some questions, and you must try your best to remember, even if the things you see are unpleasant. I will also be showing you some images to assist you. Are you ready to begin?_

Isen swallowed, not knowing what to expect.

_Okay._

_First, tell me everything you already remember._

_Um...name Isen. In hole for long. Here before that._

_You were in Germany prior to your entrapment in America?_

Isen nodded. _Think so._

Mercedony's white eyes narrowed as a theory formed. His hand touched the module on the table, pressing a few buttons, and a beam of light sprung from its heart.

_Tell me, Isen. Does this symbol mean anything to you?_

Isen saw a holographic representation of a thick, black 'X' with extra arms at each tip bending clockwise at ninety degrees; it was set in the middle of a white circle, which was in turn found in a red rectangle. For some reason, the rotating image was highly unnerving.

But he remembered, now.

_Yes. Saw it._

His head started to hurt; it felt as though something was trying to break free from somewhere deep in his mind, placing pressure on his psyche. But he kept it at bay, just as one refrains from entering a dark doorway for fear of what may lie within.

_You must not fight it, Isen. Let it come. What else do you see?_

Mercedony could see associations light up in Isen's mind, but he wasn't going to risk poking and prodding; for optimal results, the recollection had to be natural, not enforced. And so he let Isen work things through on his own, his eyes clenched shut.

_See...See men. Talk German. Put me in..._

_Yes, Isen. Just like that. Go on._

_I...no want. Make stop, Richards!_

But the floodgates were already widening, and Mercedony saw as Isen saw, experienced as he experienced, one fragment of memory surfacing after another.

Men in white lab coats conferring with men in military uniforms, Nazi swastikas sown on their shoulders. A large Nazi flag hanging on one of the walls of the laboratory Isen had been held in. Being watched as the scientists took notes while they performed tests, pumping him with drugs and chemicals, electrocuting him, placing him in tanks and exposing him to radiation and various energy frequencies, hooking him up to strange machinery, scanning him, examining him. A dark cell they threw him in when he wasn't needed, kept all alone save for when the window periodically open so the scientists could check in on him.

There was a man that reoccurred frequently in the images, a man Mercedony immediately recognized. He was there at the lab, and was there with Isen on a cargo boat as it crossed the Atlantic. The Overseer had never able to fully determine the circumstances that led Robert Bischoff to flee to America; his Proxies knew he was trying to hide something from the Nazis and the American military, but they could never figure out what it was. At last, things were starting to make sense.

The remembrance didn't stop in the World War Two era, however. Paralyzed, Isen gripped the armrests of the chair as the flashes increased in their velocity, eyes watering, respiration frantic.  
_  
Richards! _

_Isen, it is alright. I am here. _  
_  
No! No want! _

The Jewish family he was living with when they found him and brought him to their facility. Long stretches of being alone, walking alongside roads, dwelling in the wilderness. Living on the streets of cities, going out at night to steal food. Once, he approached some children who were playing with a ball, wanting to join, but they chased him away, throwing stones at him, both loathing and fearing the boy with no hair and pale skin.

Further back did his memories extend, disjointed pieces of things he once did, things that once happened to him, most of it eluding Isen's awareness, yet for reasons he could not explain, he dreaded what was to come. He could not stop the process, and pleaded for Mister Richards to help him, to make it stop.

He saw it, then. A black upright rectangle consisting of two fused cubes, red circles on each face, red lines engraved into its sleek body; a rectangular box that vibrated and hummed.

Following that was a man, and Isen knew at once that it was the man that had taken him from the home he had forgotten, the man that made him the way he was now.

A bald man with no eyebrows. A tall man with a cane and a longcoat. And it wasn't that his eyes were but mere whites; rather, they were flittering about so fast that the irises could barely be seen, appearing as milky blurs that could scarce be said to even be there.

The boy jumped back from his seat, toppling it, falling to the floor as he did. Mercedony rose, alarmed, seeing as the child saw.  
_  
Isen, wait. You are confused. You do not understand what you are seeing._

Lying on the ground, Isen looked up at Mister Richards through his tears, at the individual who had done this to him, who had taken his nameless home away from him. The man in the fedora tried to come  
closer, holding out his hands in an assuring, non-threatening gesture, coming off as anything but.  
_  
Isen, please. Calm yourself. This is not what you think. I will explain everything!_

Yet Isen only crept backwards until his back hit the corner of the room, trying to distance himself from Mister Richards as he advanced upon him, closer and closer, reaching out for him.  
_  
Isen –_

"– GET AWAY!"

A voice that had not been used in a very long time filled the room in a shrill and terrified cry. A sudden burst of flame emanated from the child; the Overseer flinched back and brought his arm up to shield his face, cursing to himself, diverting the pyrokinetic blast around his body via telekinesis. And when he turned his eyes to the corner, he was met with nothing.

Isen was gone.


	14. Chapter 13: The World Tree

Chapter 13: The World Tree

The place where Old Roger led Spock and Crow wasn't too far from the site of their first encounter. They cut straight through blocks via alleys, weaving between buildings and crossing streets. They passed other vagabonds on their way, and many seemed to know Old Roger, either waving or addressing him by name, where he would address them back; twice, he stopped to trade with the stock he carried in his cart, and the vagabond took the liberty to elaborate on the 'trade enterprise' he had set up, thereby explaining why his was a familiar face among the homeless of Manhattan.

The trio ended up at the heart of a block whose location Dan couldn't place, enclosed by the graffiti-adorned backs of the several buildings clustered there.

"Well, here we are," announced Old Roger. "This is my place, for the time being. Hold on a minute while I put this stuff away."

Against the brick wall lied a dingy mattress; some rubbish and junk lined the wall as well, pressing against a dumpster. There was also a rusted barrel propped nearby, whose use as a fire source was evidenced by its charred rim. After parking the shopping cart beside the bed, he made an inventory of the day's catch before storing what he desired to keep underneath the junk pile, which he said didn't belong to anyone, making it ideal as a place to stash his things.

Following this, he chucked some wood broken from discarded furnishing into the barrel and lit it up using gasoline and a match, causing flames to erupt for a brief flash before dying down the next moment. Now crackling at a modest intensity, the smell of smoke and burning wood soon won over the more unpleasant aromas clinging to the homeless man's living space. Old Roger fetched some chairs for his household guests from the assorted junk pile, a rocking chair for Spock and a swivelling desk chair for Crow; Old Roger chose a camping chair for himself, as well as a bottle. After placing his hands near the fire and exhaling in satisfaction, he brandished the bottle of whiskey whose first third had previously been consumed, offering some to his visitors, who declined.

The cacophony that was the many sounds of the city could be heard in the distance, but they were insulated by the narrow passages that surrounded them, so the only sounds of note were the steady crackle of the barrel's fire, the periodic swill of the vagabond's bottle, and their own voices.

"Right, Shapeshifters," said Old Roger after a hearty swig. He gazed at the bottle in his hand. "I usually drink to drown my sorrows, but it looks like I'm also drinking to forget what I've seen in recent times. Probably explains why I drink twice as much nowadays."

He chuckled at his own joke. Dan didn't find it all too funny, but he gave him a smile nonetheless; his smile faded when he saw the long shadow the man cast against the wall, half-hoping that no other shadows would be dropping from above anytime soon.

"Now's probably a good time to start remembering, though," said Dan. "So tell me, Old Roger. What have you seen?"

"Stuff you boys wouldn't believe." The old man channelled the ethos of the Campfire Storyteller as he spoke. "Crazy things are going on in the world, a lot of 'em brewing right here in the NYC. Seen my share of strange and unexplained deaths, more than any one person should. Uh, what else? Seen one or two shady business deals with weird Latin-speaking fellas in nice suits, all secret society-like. Hell, I saw a group of men appear right out of thin air just a few months ago. Now _that_ was something."

He took another swig of the bottle before stuffing additional fodder in the barrel for the fire.

"What about Shapeshifters?" prodded Dan.

His weathered face fell dark.

"Let me tell you boys something. When you live the way I do out on the streets, you notice things. At first, I didn't know what I was seeing, but then I started making out patterns and piecing things together. I've seen them kill people and steal their faces with those little black boxes of theirs. And they're fighting some kind of war, too, taking on fellas with strange energy guns."

Spock and Crow exchanged a glance, the imagery most definitely familiar.

"After one battle, I went up to look at the bodies, me and my friend Higgs; something silvery was coming out one guy's neck. That's how I found out about the mercury blood. But that ain't all. They tend to gather underground, like rats. That's where I see 'em most often, anyway."

Dan felt stupid, suddenly; _of course_ Shapeshifters were all underground. Not that the Liberation Front could have searched every single sewer tunnel and subway line in New York on their own, but he should have at least considered the possibility, given their past dealings with Hybrids. Looking to Spock, he could see that his partner felt the same way.

"How do you know what you're seeing are Shapeshifters?" inquired Spock.

"When you see folks of various age groups and genders and race and whatnot all gathered underground to talk, you know something's up. See stuff like that mostly during the winter, when a lot of homeless people take to the underground to get away from the cold. But I've seen enough of them to be able to spot them off the street. It's the way they _look_ at people."

He pointed two fingers to his two eyes, trying to emulate a Shapeshifter's glare. Spock seemed rather immersed in Old Roger's tales, swallowing with widening eyes as the old man peered at him from across the flaming barrel. Dan, however, had to shake his head; that the universe decided to send them a boon in the form of Old Roger was amusing to no end. Yet the man was already proving more useful than all of their home-owning conspiracy contacts combined, and so all the misgivings he initially held about Old Roger were melting away like sorrows after a good swig of whiskey.

"Definitely sounds like Shapeshifters," agreed Dan. "But I'm kind of curious. I don't doubt what you're saying. I'm just wondering why you'd want to help us."

"Fair question, I suppose." He took a swallow of his bottle, divorcing himself prematurely from its beak to cough. "I've made my peace with my fate a long time ago. Maybe if I live long enough, they'll end up calling me Very Old Roger –" He paused to chuckle. "– but one day I'll die out here on the streets. I got no home, no real place in the world, and no one's gonna cry for me when I pass. But even so, I figure this old man can still do at least one last good thing in his life, right?" His smile was tinged by sadness. "You know, now I'm curious as to how you boys got caught up in this whole Shapeshifter business yourselves."

"We're fighting them," stated Dan. "Or trying to, anyway. Spock and I formed a resistance movement of sorts, and we've made some decent progress so far. We call ourselves the Liberation Front."

"You're with 'em Front fellas?" exclaimed Old Roger. "Well, I'll be. Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"You've heard of us?" asked Spock, just as surprised as his partner. "How?"

"Like I said, when you live on the streets as long as I have, you see and hear things. I know full well of the good work you boys do, and I'd be glad to lend you guys a hand."

Dan's brows burrowed. Had word of their exploits already spread to New York? Or was Old Roger caught in a drunken ramble? Spock interceded before the ambiguity could be resolved.

"If you'll allow us, I'd like to confer with my associate for a moment."

"Oh, sure, go ahead," said the vagabond. "Not like I'm going anywhere."

Spock took Crow aside some distance from the barrel, at the edge of the light it produced.

"So, what do you think of this guy?" he asked. "He sounds pretty legit, if you ask me. Kind of crazy how we just happened to bump into him."

"Crazy and _fortunate_," stressed Crow. He still had trouble believing their rapid reversal of luck. "I say we take him up on his offer."

"Agreed."

They returned just as Old Roger fed the barrel a small plank of wood.

"Alright, Roger," addressed Dan, "we'll take you up on your offer. And there's money it if for you if all goes well."

"Wonderful!" He set his half-empty bottle beside his seat. "So, when do you want me to give you the grand tour?"

"Could you take us tonight?"

"Tonight?" He was taken aback by Crow's bold proposition, though promptly reconsidered. "Sure, why not? The night's still young."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The assembled Liberation Front met with Old Roger at the foot of the Barkley Hotel. They were all wearing casual clothing and lugging backpacks stocked with essentials, though Spock had insisted in wearing his aluminum-lined tuque. And beneath their inconspicuous exteriors were concealed firearms, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice.

Concealing firearms was easier than concealing perplexity, it seemed; the rest of the gang were taken aback that the miracle contact Spock and Crow found turned out to be some homeless guy. After quick introductions, the team huddled a few feet away from a waiting Old Roger, with the others raising their concerns about the plan – or lack thereof. Crow was quick to remind them that it was either this or going back home, tortured with the thought of what they might have missed by passing on this opportunity.

All in agreement, the group approached Old Roger, who perked up at their sight.

"Okay, Old Roger," said Dan. "Where's our first stop?"

"I was thinking we'd go down the Rockefeller Center Station on 47th and 6th," he suggested. "From there, we can take an access tunnel to the lower levels. The place is a sort of hub, with a lot of old sewer tunnels connecting to it. That's where we'll be heading first. "

"Alright, then. Lead the way."

The sextet set off by foot, Old Roger leading the way. By night, the city was a thing alive, a complex interplay of lights and sounds that made the whole of Crow's native Boston seem a quaint suburb at best. The interminable stream of compacted cars and taxis were a macrocosm of high cholesterol, and files of people lined the sidewalks. Every storefront they passed was as unique as the last, and klaxons and inter-driver shout-offs served as the soundtrack of their journey. It was a buffet for the senses, though after nearly a week, the novelty was starting to wear off. Even so, there as always something new to see, and the trek was made a little more entertaining as a result.

The group reached the staircase leading to the station after a good half hour, descending into the cool tunnels below. Their guide led them away from the fare control, however – their destination was a place no subway train could reach. In a city so big with its fair share of colourful individuals, such a rag-tag group didn't draw much attention, especially since Old Roger was walking several paces ahead, and so they moved without suspicion.

Navigating the station, they found what they were looking for: an unassuming door in an unassuming place, observed by what Crow hoped was his unassuming crew. Thankfully, there weren't many people around, and there were no signs of security cameras or anything of the sort, which was always good when performing activities of circumspect legality.

"Huh. They replaced it."

"Replaced what?"

"The door," said Old Roger in answer to Crow. "They must've replaced it since the last time I went this way, which was quite awhile ago. Hopefully, this'll still work."

He removed a hair pin from beneath his tuque and went to work, everyone else on lookout. After several seconds of fumbling, the lockpicker's grip slipped, and the pin fell to the floor.

"Ah, damn it!"

"What's the problem?" asked Crow.

"It's this lock. Can't open it."

Spock approached them. "Here, let me try."

Old Roger moved aside to let the man work. Removing his lock-picking kit from his coat, he went to work.

"Like Vulcan nerve pinches," said Spock, hands moving ever slowly, "picking locks requires intuitive knowledge of how and when to apply the right... amount... of... pressure. And voila!"

The door was opened to reveal a descending staircase where no light dwelt. Spock took out a flashlight from his backpack, shining the beam down into the void.

"Handier than a lighter, I'll give you that," said their guide at the sight of the flashlight, using the illumination to navigate his way down the steps.

The rest also took out their own lights and made their way inside, and Spock, last to enter, gave furtive glances before sliding inside, the door resting shut behind him. In the light of five crisscrossing flashlight beams, they were led further underground, coming to a cramped concrete corridor whose ceiling was veined with pipes.

"We'd better get a move on," said Old Roger, voice made hollow by the confined acoustics. "It's a big place down here. And it's easy to get lost, too, so no straying."

The vagabond shot down left surprisingly fast, and the team quickly fell in line. Placing their trust in the homeless man, they followed him where he went, pausing when he did, which he did often, conferring with himself before resuming his path. Though the Liberation Front members held their tongues, there was no suppressing the sense of vague anxiety from wondering if Old Roger truly did know the way, an anxiety no doubt accentuated by the unfamiliar territory they traversed.

The farther they went, the older things became, modernity fading with each successive turn. Eventually, they entered a sizeable tunnel of grey brick, where the air was cool, their breath frosting.

"This here's one of 'em old sewer tunnels," explained Old Roger. "Hasn't been used in decades. There's a whole network of shut-down, forgotten tunnels under the city, and you can get almost anywhere in the NYC from here, if you know the way."

The group walked in these places seldom touched by human soles, their every footstep playing queer tricks on their ears. Though as was the rule with the Liberation Front, the more time passed, the likelier it was that its eclectic members would engage in wildly bizarre conversations.

"So I know Shapeshifters like to hang underground," said Nelson out of the blue, "but I wonder what else might be livin' down here."

"Like what?" said Keane. "Mole people?"

"Nah, mole people live in Chicago," corrected Dan. "New York's all about Reptilians."

"We're not deep enough to encounter Silurians, dude," said Spock.

"No, no, I meant the Alpha Draconis kind. You know, unseen alien lizard-men controlling the masses through their government puppets, and so on and so forth."

"Think they might have anything to do with giant sewer gators?" asked Druid. "I mean, who knows where they come from. Maybe they're all juvenile Reptilians or sumthin'."

"Or _females_," interjected Rebecca. "Reptilians are like orb-weaver spiders, with the female ten times bigger than the male, and all the males compete amongst one another for mating rights."

"So a race of ancient saurian extraterrestrials from a distant star that have come to Earth to enslave all of mankind spend their leisure time trying to get a piece of that sweet sewer croc tail?" asked Enigma. "Sure, I can dig that."

"Oh, you'll dig it alright," said Druid. "Especially after you get a look at the 2009 Sewer Gator Pinup Calendars the Draconian overlords hang in their lofty mansions."

Spock made some guttural growls followed by a lewd whistle, marking the inception of an increasingly perverse discussion about Reptilian courting and mating habits; from there, they touched upon whether Reptilians thought dinosaur crackers to be offensive, then proceeded to wonder if beings from other stars enjoy human-themed cookies, and before they knew it, they were discussing plans to create a Homo Sapiens merchandise line to make billions on the interstellar market.

Crow thought it peculiar how they had grown to become a seamless unit over the past few months. When had that happened? He wasn't quite sure. Yet for one who at no point in his life could have said to possess any close friends, he was glad that it did.

"Keep your voices down, fellas," said Old Roger, interrupting Enigma's tirade on the merits of Violet Sedan Chair in relation to their contemporaries. "We're close."

Twenty minutes of walking in dark tunnels had brought them there. The crew silenced themselves and tensed up, wielding their flashlights with greater caution, straining their ears for any noise not of their own making.

"Saw some 'round here this past winter a few times," hushed the vagabond at the mouth of a perpendicular tunnel, wiping his nose. "At least, I think they were. It's hard to tell them apart from people, you know? Anyway, better stay close."

Crow nodded before turning back to the group, lifting his pistol in the air to signal the rest to be prepared for danger. In the weeks preceding their trip to New York, Enigma had taken them to a forest in the middle of nowhere to practice their marksmanship, being the only one besides Druid who possessed any pre-Liberation Front experience with firearms (though Druid did learn a thing or two about proper handgun techniques).

Hopefully, what Dan had learned then would serve him well now.

Following Old Roger, they began their ascent, returning to more modern maintenance tunnels. The gang entered what appeared to be the basement level of some building, a moderate-sized concrete room where water mains stained the floor below with the steady drip of their contents; what appeared to be a boiler sat in a corner, and other essential regulatory appliances were found there.

"Well, no one's here," stated Old Roger over the humming of the machinery. "Better head back."

Once returned to the old sewer-ways, Crow addressed their guide.

"That didn't strike me as a place where Shapeshifter gather on a regular basis."

"I've been doing circuits in the tunnels during the past few winters. The places where I've seen 'em don't look all too suspicious, but I guess that's the point."

"How many more places do we have left to go?"

"Depends," said Old Roger, scratching at his grey beard. "How far you wanna go? Have they changed their meeting places since the last time I came down here? Are they gonna be there tonight?"

"Will they?" asked Crow, not too keen on making investments with no returns.

"How am I supposed to know? Don't know what you're expecting outta this, Mister Crow. I can only show you their holes and hope that maybe we'll find something worthwhile."

Crow conceded, the man's outlook a sensible one, even if he wasn't pleased with the truth in his words. He was growing tired of hope at this stage; what they needed were results, not the promise of them.

As the night progressed, however, they found this promise stretching thin. The second location, the third, the fourth; all were devoid of Hybrid activity. At one point, they stopped for a rest, no one in the group save Old Roger contributing much in the way of endurance, and they snacked on the goods they brought for the trip, of which Old Roger was allowed to partake.

One hour and thirty minutes into their subterranean venture, after the sixth scouting, the limits of collective patience and stamina were beginning to wear out, to the point where Crow halted the group.

"Alright, guys," announced Dan. "I don't think we'll be finding anything down here tonight. Besides, I'm getting kind of worn out." The expressions of the team showed they had been thinking the same thing for quite the while. "I think it's time we cut our losses and head back."

The chances of a breakthrough had been slim from the onset, yet Dan couldn't help but bemoan their lack of progress. Seeing the humanoid shadows cast by their light stretching on the ancient brick walls of the tunnels, he wondered for a moment if things would have gone better if Gary were with them; and in that moment, the thought of Watchdog managed to compound the failure of this current initiative even further, and Dan fought to suppress the guilt and anger rising from within his being.

In a tone of resignation, he addressed their guide.

"Old Roger, I appreciate you helping us out. Here's something for your troubles."

Dan took out his wallet and handed the man a twenty, which he accepted without complaint, rarely ever coming across so large a sum all at once.

"Thanks a bunch," he said, waving the bill in the air before stowing it in his coat pocket. "Sorry I wasn't of greater use to you folks. Can't always win, though." The vagabond stared up at the ceiling, counting on his hands and seeming to retrace the route they traversed in his mind. "We should be somewhere under Hell's Kitchen by now. Nearest way up is about ten minutes. This way."

Seven minutes later, while navigating the higher maintenance corridors, Druid stopped.

"Guys...Hear that?"

The other stopped. "What is it?" asked Polaris.

George went to investigate an adjacent passage, holding up a finger as a sign to keep quiet.

"I think I hear...voices."

They reached for their weapons.

"You sure?" asked Enigma.

"Positive. Listen."

They took a few tentative steps inside the mouth of the corridor; it was faint over the sound of electricity and piping, but it was there.

"Alright, we'll check it out," said Crow. "Roger, you stay at the back, in case things get heavy."

It was clear that the man had no love of potentially dangerous situations, but he swallowed whatever fear he might have had. "You got it."

"Let's go."

Book-ended by Dan and Old Roger, the Liberation Front inched forward, stepping lightly, their weapons held firm in their hands. The sounds were growing louder; it was a single voice, suggesting a briefing, or the administering of orders. It occurred to Dan as the voices grew louder that he had no real clue as to what they were going to do once they got there. Should they take them all out before they could react? Should they leave one or two alive to question them? What if the team was to be discovered first? Were these even Shapeshifters? Maybe it was too soon to be formulating plans of action.

Before anything, they had to see what they were dealing with.

The corridor bent right, with the opening before them serving as the entry to the room the voices were coming from. Crow stopped beside it, crouching, and the rest followed, forming a line behind him that rested against the wall. He brought a finger to his lips – by all means a redundant gestures, seeing as none of them would dare make a sound – before peering into the room.

It was a large room with a high ceiling, lit by fluorescent fixtures overhead. From what Dan could tell, they were at the center of the longer sides of the rectangular area, in an open passage found in an indented portion of the chamber's side walls; there might have been another similar doorway directly across, but crates arranged in the center of the room were blocking the view. Dan crouched inside, huddling against the left corner of the indent, and the rest moved forward, Spock occupying Crow's prior position.

From here, Dan could see behind the crates, looking down the length of the chamber to see an exit. Then, with no end of caution, he inched his head forward, peeking out to see a group of six individuals, men and women, with two reviewing a wide piece of paper, presumably a map or blueprints.

"How many can this site house?" asked one of the men.

"There's enough room for sixteen, arranged in two rows of eight," replied one of the two women, gesturing to where the objects of interest were to be placed. "It should take a week to set up the receptacles."

"Good, good. And this is a secure location, I trust?"

"Of course. They'll be safe and sound here. There might be a slight fluctuation of power when they're sent across, but other than that, we should be fine."

Crow arched back. He tilted his head to the doorway, place the gun on his knee, then held up six fingers.

_Six Hybrids. _

Spock relayed the message to the rest, who nodded to signify their understanding, and Crow resumed his spying of the meeting. He supposed they could be human, but something told him otherwise. It was the way they held themselves, the way they spoke, the six united in their unspoken intents. They were all paying attention on one individual in particular, whom Dan surmised to be the leader; even from where he hid, the man's aura had a distinct quality to it, a commanding presence which became even more evident moments later.

"Alright, listen up," said the Hybrid in a clear, direct voice. "You five will be responsible for the installation of the receptacles. I'm giving you authorization to use as many people as you need. When the Yggdrassil Seeds are sent from the other side, it'll take about nine days for them to grow. You'll need to post sentries twenty-four-seven until they mature. Under no circumstances must they be damaged during the growing process, or they'll come out malformed and compromised. You have your orders."

_ Yggdrasil_... The name rang a bell for Dan. Where had he seen it before? Must have been somewhere in the Shapeshifter Intel he and Spock lifted from that Hybrid lair. He would have to search through them again to see what these people were plotting. Assuming they survived, that is.

The thought of mortality enlightened him to the fact that his heart was pounding. The odds were good, weren't they? Six on six. But Old Roger had no weapons, he suddenly remembered, making them slightly outmatched. Still, seeing the five subordinates nod, and getting the sense that this meeting would soon be over, he knew the time to strike was now.

Dan raised his weapon, asking silently that the others prepare themselves. He lifted his arm, and time seemed to slow to a standstill, the team waiting for his mark. One second, two. A bead of sweat contoured his eyebrow. Three, four. The Hybrids rolled up their documents.

_Now or never._

He gave the go ahead, and the Liberation Front entered the chamber, weapons at the ready.

"Stop right there, Gottfried."

The Liberation Front halted at the sound of a voice that was not Crow's. They looked to those who had entered the room from the furthest entrance, whose weapons were drawn. All the Hybrids save Gottfried drew their weapons, and Gottfried addressed his interlocutor, both the Hybrids and the new arrivals totally ignoring the individuals gathered at the mouth of one of the side entries.

"Why, if it isn't our friends from ZFT!" he said. "Lenny, you're looking thinner. What can we do for you today?"

"Cut the crap, Gottfried," said Lenny. "You know why we're here."

"That I do."

Crow didn't care who these eight party-crashers were; he wasn't about to let them interfere with the Liberation Front's only catch in their time at New York. Holding out his gun, he moved forward.

"Hey–"

Gottfried was the first to fire, whipping out a pistol just as Crow entered with blinding speed and shooting at the ZFT crew as he leaped back with superhuman agility over a stack two crates high, wounding one of the interlopers and narrowly evading the zinging pellets of blue-white energy that rocked the crates they collided with. Lenny took cover behind the crate nearest to the way ZFT had entered, with most of his squad shooting from the doorway, two men lugging their wounded comrade to safety. Gottfried was similarly encamped, returning fire, with his Hybrid goons aiding him, though both sides were evenly matched.

As for the Liberation Front, they remained in the cover of the doorway, steering clear from the heated fray. They watched as both factions slowly retreated to their respective exits, the firefight terminated almost as soon as it began, leaving the room empty save for overturned crates, scorch marks, and the Liberation Front, whose presence had gone unnoticed for the duration of the altercation.

As the six sidelined humans entered the former battlefield, Druid gave voice to their shared confusion, shock, and vexation.

"...What the hell was that?"


	15. Chapter 14: Curiouser and Curiouser

Chapter 14: Curiouser and Curiouser

_Neksus Mesto. _

It was in the deep of the Siberian taiga that the base of operations of the Brotherhood had once stood, friend only to snow and wind and silence. Over the ages, the humans indigenous to the region steered well away from the black fortress in the haunted forests where the _Prizraki Tunguski_ were said to dwell, a superstition which had suited the Guardians well. The Caretaker had built it of his own hand; a labour of many days and none, the Guardians were told. And it was from there that their efforts were coordinated and the Will of their Father constantly refined and plotted so that it may be implemented across the twin realities of Solve and Coagula.

_Neksus Mesto _had been its name. The Nexus Point.

Yet the Tunguska Event of 1908 had levelled the Nexus Point, along with just over two thousand square miles of land surrounding the _Podkamennaya Tunguska_ River. The Guardians fled early, having perceived the calamitous shockwave several days before it happened. They returned to the site shortly after, finding naught but the charred remains of their once great residence, and with the Caretaker's consent, the Guardians had stood before their fallen hall through the day and ensuing night, observing the loss; for if the Caretaker was their Father, then the Nexus Point had undoubtedly been their Mother.

Over the next seventy-eight years, the Brotherhood lived without a secure central headquarters, inhabiting a few transitional abodes, moving ever westward. It was only in 1986 in the wake of the Chernobyl Incident that the Caretaker at last found a locale that would satisfy their needs; a place of isolation where only few would dare tread willingly, yet a place that served as a geographic sweetspot, nestled between Europe to the west and Asia to the east.

Their new base was a fully subterranean one – so as to not repeat the mistake of the Nexus Point – and like its predecessor, it too was a labour of many days and none. _Voskresenie_, the Caretaker named it; the Resurrection, rising from the ashes of the Nexus Point. Voskresenie was a place of marvels, to be sure, with its halls of marble and obsidian and the statue of a phoenix with wings outstretched, but it would never truly replace Neksus Mesto.

They were crossing the precise longitude of the Nexus Point's location, thought Wednesday as the Beacon's trail led them across the Indian Ocean. Perhaps when their mission concluded, he would visit the Podkamennaya.

After parting ways with Saturday in Augusta City, Wednesday and Thursday followed the bearing on their compasses, tracing the Australasian coastline to arrive in Perth, where the trail veered off into the ocean. Deducing that the Beacon had been ferried by cargo ship across the Indian Ocean, the pair set out to the waters after a brief stay at a quayside cantina for sustenance.

It was as they passed the southern tip of India that the needles experienced a sudden spike, wavering due northeast.

The Guardians came to a halt on a small island they espied in the horizon.

"There seems to be another interfering signature," said Thursday on the sandy shores, disbelieving. "Yet this one seems to be affecting the compass differently than the anomaly Saturday found."

"I see it as well," said Wednesday. It was night, and the sky arched unobstructed over them, so clear that even the band of the Milky Way could be plainly seen. "Do you think that the Overseer could have manufactured safeguards in the event someone would attempt to track the Beacon?"

"Something to keep us off its trail?" The Guardian pondered a moment. "Perhaps. Father did say the Overseer is very cunning. Should we investigate?"

"We cannot risk neglecting to investigate when there is the possibility that something pertaining to the Beacon may be found." His brows gave the barest flex. "Yet if this path does yield nothing, we will have lost valuable time."

"That is not an issue, brother," assured Thursday. "Remember the words of our Father. Time is of no consequence in the face of the inevitable."

"True," said Wednesday, tilting his head. "I will go while you follow the primary signal."

"I think I will accompany you instead. I am rather curious to see what might be the cause of this disturbance."

Wednesday paused to consider. _Time is of no consequence_. "As you wish," he said. "Let us depart."

In a flash, they abandoned that lonesome isle. The Collision would have occurred naturally had the Brotherhood never gotten involved; that much was evident in the range of possible futures extending from the present, with them all portending of the collision of Solve and Coagula brought about by the worsening decay and eventual tearing of the Veil. They could have well sat back and do nothing, but they were instead expediting the Collision, for such was the Will of their Father.

Yet the Overseer's entire enterprise revolved around the possibility that he could avert the Collision indefinitely. But what could escape the inevitable? A day, a year, a century; the Collision was guaranteed, and every moment the Overseer swam against the current would only make things worse when the Collision finally came to pass. The Overseer was brilliant and powerful, a being that was the Caretaker's equal in every way, their Father had said, one to be both respected and feared; yet his perception was flawed, and therein laid his undoing.

And potentially, the undoing of all things.

It was this thought – one always lingering somewhere in the back of their minds – that drove them with greater haste to Sri Lanka.

Upon breaching the coast, they wondered to what their compasses were leading them to. The two traversed inland through the jungle for a half hour until they stumbled upon the object of interest.

At those speeds, they had already overshot the site by several kilometers by the time they realized the needle had turned, revealing the location of the anomaly. But it was not the compasses they followed as they doubled back at a slower pace; they could feel the energy in the very air, a faint vibration just strong enough to serve as their guide in the darkness of night.

They saw the lights before anything else, a bright glow in the heart of the jungle.

Then came the sounds of human activity, something unusual so deep in the wilderness of the Sabaragamuwa Province. The Guardians skid across the bend of a large, winding river and rose over a hill thick with vegetation, the noise swelling, and they soon reached the edges of what they found to be an excavation site.

The jungle had been razed to form a large clearing. On the outskirts of the site were tents and vehicles, and lights were scattered about for illumination, brightening the night, clouds of insects dancing around them. Contouring the site's outskirts, they could see that an improvised road had been carved in the brush for their all-terrain vehicles to travel to and from the area. They spotted excavators parked off to the side, and the lights revealed the existence of a tall crane whose outline the Guardians could only partially make out from under the canopy.

In their preliminary scouting, they could also catch glimpses of the humans present at the site as they went about their business.

"It is difficult to see here," said Thursday. "We have no choice but to go in closer."

"Yes, but we will have to operate quickly. We must not be seen."

The Guardians nodded in joint understanding before altering their temporal rates. In unison, they moved at great speeds, time for them slowing down. In a site nearly frozen in time, they could see the gaping hole that had been dug out; a spiral slope followed the inner edge to lead to the pit's bottom, where something had quite clearly been dug out. Looking up, they saw what had been unearthed, the source of the anomalous energy spikes, currently held aloft by the cables of the crane mounted on the other side of the pit.

It was a large rectangular artefact of worn and cracked stone, with some runes or glyphs etched on the side, mostly effaced. Yet they could see that it was broken, a segment of it missing, and it was from this wound that the energy surge emanated from; the needles on their compasses were caught in a tug-of-war between the direction of the primary Beacon signal and the stone container before them. The vibrations were slower in their subjective time as well, a roiling rumble that was in fact a more acute ripple in real-time.

Yet the unearthed prize was not half as strange as those who had dug it up.

It was evident that these were humans, though the further the Guardians analyzed them, the further removed these people became from ordinary humans. Their temporal precursors were hazy and ill-defined, and their minds were shielded from Guardian perception. The ones at the bottom of the pit, tending to the portion of the artefact that had broken off, those on the dirt slope, manning the crane, overseeing the operation from the edges, swatting away the insects attracted by the light, wiping the sweat off their brows; these humans all felt odd, and the Guardians shared a concern glance.

It was Thursday's puzzled eyes that alerted Wednesday of the threat that lay behind him.

The Guardian pivoted to see a man in the middle of drawing his gun at a snail's pace, though in truth, he was drawing it as fast as he could. There was another man standing a few feet away, his face blanching by increments. The Guardians reproached themselves; they had lost themselves in the curious properties of the artefact and the peculiarities of the site's occupants, their focus having waned, so while they had only intended to remain for a few milliseconds in real-time, they had actually lingered for a few whole seconds, standing idle at the pit's edge, long enough for human eyes to capture their forms.

The Law of Silver instructed the Guardians to never allow others to learn of their true nature save by those they were tasked to deal with in concordance with the Will. They had breached this Law in their indiscipline, and the consequences could well be dire. How would they proceed? Wednesday looked to his brother, who made a series of swift motions with his hand.

_Code Mercury. Retreat._

Wednesday was inclined to agree, but his eyes passed to the suspended stone block, then to its custodians. He responded to his brother with his own signalling.

_Negative. Law of Aether. Code Nickel. Observe and assess. _

Thursday appeared momentarily perplexed, but nodded, placing his trust in Wednesday's plan.

At once, they returned to regular temporal flow. Things unfolded much quicker, now; the man had his gun poised, and others around the site were directing their attention to the disturbance, until all eyes were on the pair of pale, bald figures in black longcoats.

"What do you think you're doing, Rodriguez?" asked the man standing behind the one with the weapon. He spoke in an urgent voice, never taking his eyes off the Guardians. "Remember the _Pact_."

"They can't touch us either, though, right?" raised Rodriguez. "I'm sure they won't mind if we ask what they're doing here."

"We detected an energy signature originating from this area," said Thursday after a moment, walking to his brother's side. "It seems to be coming from the object you have unearthed. What is it? What do you intend to do with it?"

Rodriguez swallowed, yet the Guardians could see it was not simply fear that compelled him to aim his weapon at them, but prudence as well. "That doesn't concern you," said the man. "Now I suggest you take your leave and forget you ever saw this place."

Wednesday took a step forward, prompting Rodriguez to steady his aim. "Not a step further. Have you forgotten the Pact?"

The Guardian smirked, head tilting in amusement; bullets would simply pass through him if he allowed it. Did this Rodriguez truly think it would be effective against him?

"What pact?" asked Wednesday. He took a step, then another. "We simply wish to know the nature of –"

Something lifted the Guardian from his feet and flung him backward through the air.

He had hoped that by showing himself to be the superior force, the humans would submit and be more willing to answer their questions; the Caretaker had placed the Law of Aether into effect, allowing the Guardians to take any action they think might benefit the Will as per their own judgement, and Wednesday had intended to exploit this newfound authority to leverage answers from these people where he might otherwise have been forced to flee the scene, just as his brother had suggested.

Yet the unseen force that propelled him seemed to be the superior force at the moment; it was as though some great fist had given him a wide uppercut in the chest, sending him flying. He tried to right himself in the air, but with the actions of these humans being unpredictable to his perception, he had been caught too unawares to brace himself properly beforehand, and so he landed on the ground several feet behind, rolling in the dirt.

Thursday did not need to wait for his comrade to signal Code Lead so that he might engage the threat. Even as Wednesday spiralled past him, Thursday ran to Rodriguez at heightened speed. The human pulled the trigger, but the Guardian let the bullet Tunnel straight through him, and he drove an open palm into Rodriguez's chest, sending him careening into the side of a truck before the man could react. Thursday then turned to the man that had stood behind Rodriguez, the one whose face had betrayed him as the one responsible for pushing Wednesday.

Fifteen feet away, Wednesday rose to his feet, ready to engage his attacker. Something on the corner of his eye compelled him to turn his head, however, and he watched one of the spotlights arcing through the air, flying straight for him, having been flung by one of the humans through some sort of telekinetic ability. These were definitely no ordinary humans, thought Wednesday as he allowed the projectile to phase through him just in time, the bulky lamp crashing and tumbling on the ground behind the Guardian as though his body had never been there to begin with.

By the time Wednesday moved to join Thursday, the latter had already disposed of two other men, but a woman wielding flames forced him to back away, narrowly avoiding the jets of orange fire that were somehow shooting from her palms. The Guardians regrouped, seeing that the humans were all poised to mass against them with their psionic abilities, either running around the site or gathering some distance from the Guardians, assessing the risks of engaging the pale men. Since when did humans possess such power? The brothers looked to each other, prepared to take them on.

"If we move fast enough," said Thursday, "they will have trouble directing their abilities at us."

"Fan out to confuse them," suggested Wednesday. "I will go left."

But they never had the chance to strike. A man suddenly strolled onto the site, having just then emerged from an all-terrain vehicle fresh from the road, and he bellowed strict orders in a strong voice.

"Stand down!"

He needed only to speak once. The strange humans nearest to him backed down at their apparent leader's commands, and the rest of the site quickly followed in their example.

"What's going on here?" he asked, halting as he saw the Guardians. He wasn't the tallest man, and he had some girth to him, but there were hints of strength beneath his cargo shorts and dark polo shirt, and in the large arms and thick calves covered with hair.

"Witnesses." The man who had pushed Wednesday with his mind hobbled forward, steering clear from the Guardians, especially Thursday, the one who had knocked him to the ground. He approached the leader, panting as he spoke. "They came out of nowhere... Rodriguez asked them to leave because... because of the Pact, but they didn't seem to understand... when one of them came closer, I thought he was going to... so I...but then they struck back, and then..."

"Of course they don't understand, Warwick," cut in the leader after several moments of studying the Guardians. "These aren't Witnesses. These are Children of the Devasanja."

The Guardians looked to one another, and to those surrounding them. Children of the Devasanja? The significance of the term was not readily apparent to them; however, they soon pieced things together, recalling lessons taught to them by the Caretaker during their training, and they came to realize who exactly they were dealing with. And clearly, these people knew who the Guardians were as well, for wonderment and unease washed over the site like a sudden wave that had swept over the treeline to flood the site.

The leader approached them. His demeanour was friendly, but the Guardians could see the mistrust and caution in his hazel eyes.

"Who are you?" asked Wednesday.

"My name is Sylvan Eckhart." He offered a curt bow. "I apologize for the hostile conduct of my people. If you would kindly follow me to my tent, I'm sure we can reach an understanding and sort out this whole thing out."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The sand-coloured tent they were led to was spacious, as befit the rank of the man who was leading the Sri Lankan expedition. It was a place filled with crates and coolers, and a curtain partitioned the tent in half, leaving what lay behind to the imagination of the Guardians. A man with a black goatee peppered grey, Sylvan Eckhart's medium-length hair was combed toward the back of his head, and the buttons in his polo were loosed open, exposing a bit of his hirsute chest.

"Something to drink, gentlemen?"

"Water will suffice," said Thursday. Wednesday nodded in agreement; it had been a long way since Perth.

After clearing a central table of the documents and maps sprawled upon it, he fetched two water bottles from a cooler and placed them on the table, inviting them to sit. They did, and Eckhart watched from the other end as the Guardians uncapped the bottles and chugged them in unison, siphoning the water and replacing the empty plastic bottles on the table in synchronous movements.

Hazel eyes sat under Sylvan's thick black eyebrows, observing the Guardians closely, both the one to the left with a red tie and the edges of a tattoo creeping up from his collar and the one to the right with a deep blue tie and five rings of varying kinds shared across both hands.

"I don't have to worry about my safety being alone in here with you two, do I?"

"We did not start the fight," replied Wednesday. "One of your men attacked us. We merely defended ourselves."

"So it would seem. Again, I'm terribly sorry for my misunderstanding. But as Warwick recounted, you must have given him the wrong impression. They wouldn't have attacked you openly if they didn't feel threatened. But then again, they didn't know who you _really_ were."

"Warwick said we were Witnesses," noted Wednesday. "And your people mentioned some sort of pact."

Sylvan's eyes squinted in thought, considering his next move. He was twisting a ring on his right hand, in which was set an orange-ish gem. For the briefest instant, Eckhart seemed to change before their eyes, occupying more space than he actually was, and the hiccup soon past. The Guardians glanced briefly, wondering if the other had seen the bizarre shift.

Sylvan took a swig from his water canteen before leaning back into his chair.

"As you've no doubt realized, we are aware of the Overseer and his Witnesses," he began, "along with the Caretaker and his Guardians."

"Yes," said Thursday, looking to his brother. "And we know who you are as well."

Eckhart smiled. "I'm sure you do. But that's not the issue." He leaned forward, clasping his hands as they rested on the table. "The reason my people attacked you is because they mistook you for Witnesses. It's a long story, but suffice it to say that the Overseer's people and my people have struck terms of agreement a long time ago, which we know as the Pact. It forbids either party to openly attack the other or to interfere in the other's affairs, among other things."

"What would happen if either party breaches these terms?" inquired Wednesday.

"Well, that party would be risking all-out war, to put it mildly."

The way Eckhart spoke was a bit unsettling to the Guardians. Had they continued the fight against Sylvan's people, they might have emerged victorious; yet they were greatly outnumbered, and the humans possessed abilities that gave them a certain edge. The Brotherhood had seven Guardians, but who knew how many of Sylvan's kind were out there. Perhaps the reason the Overseer had not yet breached the Pact was because he realized that their great numbers would rival his strength, or maybe even surpass it.

The thought was a troubling one.

"If you _were_ Witnesses, then this little incident might have gone down very differently," explained Eckhart. "But since we have no binding contract with the Caretaker as we do with the Overseer, you can't be held accountable for defending yourselves. Though my people can't really be blamed, either. We all abide by the Pact's terms, but it was formed long before any of us were born, and all we know about the Witnesses and Guardians are found in the stories and records that were passed down to us. Since the descriptions for both your kinds are similar, and that only a few of us have ever seen them, you can understand if there were mix-ups."

It explained why Eckhart had been eyeing them funnily this whole time, the Guardians thought; he had never laid eyes on a Guardian before, let alone two, and while there was caution aplenty in his hazel eyes, the fascination could not be fully masked.

"We understand," said Thursday. "All we know of you, we learned from stories as well."

"Is that right?" Eckhart grinned. "So it seems there's no foul, then. I'm glad we were able to settle this amicably. In any case, I'm sure you have other pressing matters to attend to, so I won't keep you."

He rose, and so did the Guardians, but when he saw that his guests were not following him to the exit, he stopped.

"Actually, we are interested in learning what the object you have uncovered might be," said Wednesday. "We detected a strong energy spike originating from this area. Can you inform us what this object is?"

"Why are you so interested in it, if I may ask?" asked Eckhart, raising an eyebrow.

"We are not at liberty to say," said Thursday.

"Well, until you are, I hope you can understand if we aren't forthcoming either. Let me be clear, gentlemen. While there are no prior terms of conduct between us to dictate how we should interact, I would nonetheless advise you follow the Overseer's example and refrain from interfering in our affairs, just as we have for you thus far. Frankly, enmity is something we could go without at the current time, and I'm sure that isn't something you want either."

Sylvan's eyes had grown slightly somber as the ultimatum was delivered. The man watched the Guardians, seeking to gauge their reactions, but the stoic faces of his guests were not so easily read.

"Of course," said Wednesday after sharing a conferring glance with his comrade. "We would not think of it."

"Excellent," said Eckhart, who parted the tent flap to allow his guests outside.

Sylvan's people had returned to work, including those whom the Guardians had fought.; they paused to look at their leader as he strolled out of his tent with the Children of the Devasanja, but quickly resumed their tasks.

"I suppose this is where we part ways," said Eckhart as all three stared at the artefact. The crane was in the process of lowering it to an area outside the central pit at the direction of a group of men and women. The man turned to the Guardians. "While I don't know what your current mission is, I nonetheless wish you luck, as well as a safe journey. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my work. Love and Light, my friends."

Sylvan Eckhart made a small bow before leaving to rejoin his people, leaving the Guardians to themselves.

"They are not quite as had I imagined when our Father told us of them," noted Thursday as they inched toward the edge of the pit with languid strides.

"Indeed. What do you make of his warning? Do you think they pose a threat to the Brotherhood?"

"Our Father had warned us not to concern ourselves with this group in our lessons, so they must not be. In any case, Sylvan Eckhart is correct; there are more pressing matters that require our attention."

They unsheathed their compasses, whose needles were still twisting wildly.

"The artefact continues to scramble reception of the compasses," observed Wednesday. "The sooner we distance ourselves from this place, the faster they will stabilize."

"Agreed."

With a final visual pass of the excavation site, they fled into the jungle, speeding across the landscape, Tunnelling through everything that stood in their path, all the while wondering what their brother Saturday was up to.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Since when did anomalies move about so erratically?

It was most curious, yet at no point did Saturday relent. He had first followed the secondary signal from Augusta City to nearby Bridgetown, but the signature had quite suddenly disappeared, his compass showing no further signs of interference. He searched the town for a little while, but whatever it was he had noticed in Augusta had all but vanished. With the short-lived hunt over, he cut his losses and set his sights for the Indian Ocean, where the Beacon's trail lay.

No sooner had he left Bridgetown behind that the needle flared up once more.

Thus began his chase of the unseen target into the Australasian countryside. It would lead him further inland, only to suddenly die and resurface later, a pattern Saturday found most aggravating. Sometimes, it took a few minutes to show itself again; sometimes, up to an hour. It invariably always returned, however, which only served to further spur Saturday onward. Yet the night progressed, the moon plummeting into the horizon, and the Guardian began to wonder if he was ever going to apprehend the source of the elusive signature.

At a point where the signal had held the longest, Saturday was sprinting along at his fastest when the compass needle swerved, indicating he had just then passed the anomaly. Alas, when he returned to the city where it had been, the signal was lost, only to reappear twenty minutes later, beckoning Saturday southeast. He heeded the call, his interest redoubled when now that it was clear that his target was moving around, just as he had suspected early on in his search.

When the signal continued to hold, Saturday thought his chances of at last finding the anomaly to be the greatest yet, especially when he reached Melbourne. Racing around the city limits, he determined that the target was well indeed somewhere within the city, and with renewed vigour, he made haste toward the skyline, the rising sun of early morning adding gold highlights to the blue sky.

He paused frequently, conferring with his compass to adjust his course. In the suburbs, through the inner city, over a large blob of Quarantine Amber, the people ensnared within locked in suspended animation; his stride was swift, not wanting to risk missing the anomaly and losing the signal when he was so close.

He made a stop on building overlooking a shipping yard.

_It is here_, he thought. _It will not escape me this time_.

With precise movements, he retraced his steps, eyes locked on the needle, only looking up to get a general idea of where he was going. He adjusted his trajectory in concordance with the needle's sways, inferring the position of the anomaly from the angle of its deviation. He entered a dock, weaved through shipping containers, over them. He halted after the last few rows to face the waterfront, the concrete platform giving way to ebbing green-grey waters, a large cargo freighter moored close by.

_There! _

Saturday pivoted on the concrete strip that was the yard's edge, finally gazing upon the anomaly he had toiled throughout the night to find, and the anomaly turned around to see what had landed nearby, the eyes beneath the brim of its fedora turning as wide as the Guardian's own.


	16. Chapter 15: The Australasian Tango

Chapter 15: The Australasian Tango

The wind died altogether at the docks. Even the waters appeared to still, cowed by the bedrock tension that was forming between them.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off the Guardian with the pierced face and ears, the Witness collapsed the communication module he was holding and placed it in his suit pocket. Saturday did the same with his compass, the device no longer required now that the anomaly had been located. Unbidden, the words of his brother Thursday came to him, spoken when the Brotherhood had convened at Voskresenie to receive their briefing on the Beacon assignment.

_They are like us in some ways. And in other ways, they are different._

He analyzed his sworn adversary, attempting to derive any and all information he could. The Witness was of average height, yet slender, and in his oblong face sat small eyes among angular features. There were many evident similarities between them, with the shared lack of hair follicles, the pale skin tones, the suits of highest quality which rippled in the salted breeze, the possession of advanced technology, the properties associated with partial detachment to the Equation; but barring the superficial, what dissimilarities were present could not be so easily inferred, bringing trepidation to the Guardian.

_Should I engage him? Should I retreat? _

He weighed his options, mind afire. Thursday's assessment had been that they could stand their ground against the Witnesses, but standing before one now, he found that he did not share his brother's confidence. The degree of impartiality the Witnesses held in relation to the Equation was stronger than that of the Guardians; the gap wasn't too wide, but it was significant enough so as to make a difference. Because of this, the Witness should theoretically be able to do everything Saturday could and slightly more, and his opponent would have the edge in open confrontation.

The Law of Gold had also been suspended by the Caretaker for the duration of the Beacon assignment, a protocol that otherwise forbade direct interaction with the Witnesses. There were twelve Witnesses; eliminating even one would favorably alter the probabilities involved in the implementation of the Will, all the while lowering the potential success rate for the Overseer's own plans. Yet even though nothing prevented the Guardian from striking first, he wondered if it would not be wiser to retreat. The search for the Beacon was his top priority, and his brothers were no doubt wondering where he was; perhaps he should seek to rejoin them. He could always take on the League of the Witnesses another day. Time is of no consequence in the face of inevitability.

To fight, or to flee. Such were the choices Saturday entertained, and the merits he perceived in either outcome locked him in indecision.

The Witness decided to make the choice for him when he quite suddenly unsheathed a pistol and fired an energy round at the Guardian.

Since his opponent lacked a temporal precursor, Saturday did not perceive the threat until the blast connected with his torso, the ensuing kinetic shockwave knocking him back several feet. A portion of the condensed energy spread through his body, a jolt that heralded a short-lived, burning pain. He fell hard on his back, but managed to right himself with a reverse somersault, sliding on his feet as the momentum continued to push him back along the concrete surface. When he looked up again, another energy burst was already closing in, and the Witness was preparing to shoot another. Reflexes guiding him, he heightened his temporal rate to sidestep, narrowly avoiding it; the round dispersed as it lost steam, vanishing over the waters some distance away.

It occurred to Saturday that he could still flee, but it was too late for that, he decided. For the sake of his brothers, of his Father, of the Will, he had to know which of them – Witness or Guardian – was the superior combatant, the force to be reckoned with.

He struck back.

At blinding speed, Saturday ran at the Witness. Caught off guard by the unexpected acceleration, the man in the fedora tried to correct his shots, seeking to aim where the Guardian was going to be – or where he _anticipated_ the Guardian to be – but he too lacked a temporal precursor, and the Witness had trouble keeping up as his attacker weaved a serpentine path to bridge the distance, evading all of his shots.

A blur, Saturday came upon his adversary, first whipping his left arm to angle the pistol out of the way, then putting his weight into a right fist that struck the Witness square in the chest. Stumbling, the Witness corrected himself, ducking under a right kick intended for his head and sweeping for the Guardian's left leg as the right arced overhead. But while the trip was effective, sending Saturday flipping backward, he managed to land on his hands and vault himself back in his feet. The Witness capitalized on the newly-formed divide, firing another round. Saturday braced himself, thinking perhaps he might be able to make the shot Tunnel through him; but instead of phasing through his body, it connected with his shoulder, causing him to spiral diagonally into the implacable stack of shipping containers, their corrugated facades shivering from the impact.

The Guardians were not equipped with projectile-based weaponry; in fact, they were not equipped with any weapons at all. No human weapon could best them, so the need for guns was absent. Saturday would have thought the Witnesses to have operated the same way, but they _did _possess weapons, placing the Guardian at a woeful disadvantage. Once more, he zigzagged toward the enemy and resumed his physical volley, trying to keep as close as he could, not giving the Witness any reprieve to shoot him again.

Neither of them had fought so vigorously in close-quarters combat since their training days, but the lessons they learned were coming back to them in the heat of battle; having been instructed in a variety of martial art disciplines, they each held their own, deeply entangled in a dance of countermoves to countermoves. But it was Saturday who was on the offensive for the most part, driving his foe back, bent on disarming him to even the odds. They duelled at augmented speeds, hazy silhouettes in the light of dawn. And eventually, in what had been around five seconds in real-time, he found his opening, locking his adversary's wrist and forcing the suited man to relinquish his grip on the pistol, which slid on the ground and stopped just short from tumbling over the edge of the platform.

The Witness followed the flung pistol with his eyes, and Saturday exploited the momentary lapse in attention to spin around and place an elbow in the Witness' jaw, only to then deliver a side kick to his gut, his hat falling from its bald perch as the suited man fell on his back. When the Witness redressed himself, he noticed that the Guardian was not pressing on his attack, his eyes directed at his face. Feeling something on his lip, he brought his fingers there, only to find their tips stained red upon visual inspection.

It was his own blood, a sight which he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen.

Their eyes met, and in that instant, both were intimately reminded that the Witness was not invincible, and the Guardian charged anew.

Here they fought, the foaming waters lapping at the platform, the containers and the cargo ship looming on either side of them, caging them on the lengthy concrete strip that served as their arena. They matched one another blow for blow, one sometimes managing to land a strike on the other. The roles of defense and offense shifted often, but at no point did they tire, beings inexhaustible by design.

The duel prolonged, and Saturday was starting to doubt whether he would be able to overpower the Witness, especially when the suited man somehow disappeared.

He didn't know how it happened. The Guardian was rushing at him with a string of deft blows, but the Witness managed to duck under a wide hook and deliver a hook of his own. Saturday's head whipped to the side, and when he turned back, his fist hit nothingness. Alarmed, he spun about, searching. What sort of ability was this? Was this what the Caretaker had warned them about? It seemed the Witnesses could, whilst unobserved, change their probable location in space to one other than the one they occupied. Yet he had only looked away for the briefest of moments...

It did not take long for the Witness to reappear, and when he did, it was with a pistol aimed directly in the Guardian's face.

It took everything to leap back into the air to avoid the shot, which grazed the soles of his shoes; the blast knocked into the stack behind him. Saturday propelled himself again on the lip of the shipping container at the top of the stack, distancing himself from subsequent rounds that flashed their warm tongues at his body and face as they passed dangerously close to him.

Five feet, ten, twenty; Saturday flew backward, gliding through the air over the yard and its rows and columns of rainbow containers. For a moment, he allowed himself to think that he got away, but a quick glance back proved otherwise. The Witness was now standing on the top of a stack straight ahead and sent a spray of blue-white orbs in his direction, maximizing the potential that the target would be hit. Unable to adjust his trajectory midair, he was delivered directly into the line of fire; there was a hit, and upon contact, it negated his momentum, sending him falling onto the stack directly beneath him with a thud. When he got to his feet, he hastily leapt to the side to avoid oncoming fire, moving to the next stack over.

They waltzed atop the vast grid of container stacks, with Saturday hopping from one to the next like so many lily pads on a pond, tracing a deliberately chaotic path so as to throw off his opponent's aim. Stops and starts, acute turns, small and large jumps, scurrying on the ground between stacks, through them; the Guardian did not limit himself. But whenever his eyes would stray from the Witness for even a moment, the suited man would reappear elsewhere to ambush him. And having felt the gun's power, he tried to keep the Witness in his sights while simultaneously attempting to get closer, the only real strategy available to him.

The Witness was learning, however, his shots becoming more calculated, more precise, keeping the Guardian at bay. When the Witness appeared behind him, Saturday did not hesitate to strike, and the Witness fell over the stack's edge, but the suited man was nowhere to be seen when the Guardian peered over; instead, he showed up behind Saturday a heartbeat later, loosing rounds that nipped at the fleeing Guardian's heels.

_He is too strong. I must escape. _

The battle was all but lost. The Witness had superior firepower and was his equal in combat prowess. The location shift technique, something Saturday was incapable of, was far faster and more efficient a travel method than mere running and jumping, and unless the suited man was placed under constant observation, he would hold absolute command the battlefield. As the Witness ambushed him somewhere in the maze of stacks, he concocted a plan to Tunnel straight through the containers and up the stack the Witness would be standing on to take him by surprise; but since the Witness tended to remain on higher ground, the Guardian would lose sight of him the moment he descended, and the suited man would no doubt shift to another location, causing Saturday to discard the plan.

From every angle Saturday examined the problem, the same conclusion arose.

All possible futures would end in defeat.

_ Code Mercury. Retreat. _

And so he ran.

Away from the docks, up and over buildings, his tireless steps bore him onward. His chest and midsection were sore and afflicted with a numb pain due to the energy rounds, and he could feel sweat beginning to form on his naked forehead, so strenuous had been the physical exertion required to stand his ground against the Witness. But he needed not worry about that any longer; he ran as fast as he could, Tunnelling through the air to eliminate any resistance.

The Guardian thrust himself up to a taller building, only to find the Witness waiting for him. He let himself phase through the roof to evade the fired shots, then rushed through an office a few floors down, Tunnelling out the window panes, trying to get away. But the Witness would not let him, consistently showing up unannounced, forcing the Guardian to repeatedly alter his course, often times to reverse it. Energy bolts hunted him across the city, the suited man following close behind, an omnipresent spectre on the skyline, and Saturday soon realized that his foe was constantly shifting his location to keep up.

He could not intuit his presence as he could with humans, so the Witness caught him off guard time and time again, keeping Saturday confined to the city. He could not face him, nor escape him. What other options were there?

_I could hide. Yes._

It occurred to him as he dodged the Witness once more that if he had trouble intuiting his adversary's presence, the converse should be true. If he hid within a building, the suited man would not be able to find him, and would have to abandon the chase. A smirk formed on his pale face, and he took to the streets, crisscrossing intersections; in his perceived time, the humans and vehicles surrounding him were moving as fast as icicles melting in the sunlight. He made a sharp turn into a skyscraper, then propelled himself up, stopping in a bathroom, startling the humans that were copulating over the sinks.

They broke their coitus upon seeing the ghostly man rise up through the tiled floor.

"Be silent," he ordered with a swift point of the finger, quelling their screams before they could fly out their throats.

The woman sat on the counter top and the man stood before her, both silent and rigid as the bald man in the black longcoat observed a small circular device in his hand. The needle was wavering indecisively, signifying that the Witness was whizzing all about his general vicinity. Seconds elapsed, the Guardian having resynchronized with real-time to lengthen his period of refuge.

"Can...can we leave?" asked the man, pants still lying around his ankles, neither he or his female friend having yet dared to move.

"No."

Saturday studied the compass closely, monitoring the signs pointing to the Witness' proximity. And to his delight, the needle danced less and less; he was moving away.

"It worked," announced the Guardian to the bathroom's occupants.

"Who are you?" asked the woman, her face almost as pale as their unannounced guest, but he shot up and disappeared behind the ceiling before she could get an answer.

To the roof he sped, climbing floors as one would a flight of steps, conquering the remainder of the seventy-five floors that comprised the glass-paned spire. The city stretched out in all directions, and the sun was well awake now; for him, it had been a long battle, but only four minutes had actually passed. He turned his sights to the west, the horizon tinged purple by the last stains of the retreating night, a white zeppelin as its last star. Somewhere in that distance lied the hidden home of the Beacon. His brothers were there as well, searching for it. He was eager to reach them; there was much he had to tell them.

Saturday looked to his compass, planning his trajectory. The needle was starting to sway more and more.

The suited man was standing behind him, tie fluttering in the wind.

The Guardian gritted his teeth, desperation giving way to irritation. He saw the Witness producing his weapon, and without a second thought, Saturday scrambled for him, tackling him off the precipice.

_It ends now. _

The sudden jump from real-time to accelerated time caught the Witness off guard, and only as they fell did he acclimatize; his pistol had been knocked from his hand, the Guardian having speared him before he could manage a proper grip, and it fell off to the side, lost. He tried to wrestle himself from Saturday's grip, but the man in the long coat hugged him firmly, never once taking his eyes off the Witness' own, preventing him from shifting his location. They fell in a spiralling dovetail, the asphalt below gradually rising to meet them, passing pigeons that were frozen in the air on the way down.

His plan was a simple one. When they landed on the streets, Saturday would Tunnel through, falling several feet below ground, only to rise up again unscathed. But the Witness had not Tunnelled once over the entirety of their duel, the Guardian had noticed. Whether it was due to inability or ignorance was irrelevant; Saturday meant to exploit the suited man's weaknesses to his advantage.

In their midair struggle, the Witness reared his head and smashed it against Saturday's, their naked brows colliding. The sudden influx of pain caused Saturday to loosen his grip by degrees, but it was enough for the Witness to pry himself free and kick the Guardian away.

Separated, the pair fell faster than the human eye could see, and the last thing Saturday saw as he phased through the street with his back to the ground was the Witness falling some meters above him.

_No! I must get away!_

Not waiting to see what fate might have befallen his foe, Saturday reoriented himself and propelled his way through dirt and piping and sewer tunnels back to ground level, where he proceeded to cut west across the city, buildings, vehicles, and humans alike posing no obstacle. He breached the city limits; then, espying a train moving away from Melbourne, and he made for it, hopping onto the caboose and running along the train's spine.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder.

_Have I escaped him? _

The suited man standing on the train when he turned his head forward confirmed otherwise.

_Why must he be so strong?_ He thought as the Witness caught him and slammed him on the back of the moving train's rectangular metal car. _Why can I not defeat him?_

As a response to the unspoken question, the Witness sat on his chest, held the Guardian's suit tightly, and rained fists upon his face.

Unrelenting, uncompromising, the Witness beat him down at high speed, his fist a mallet of steel. Brow ridges, cheekbones, jaw, ear; the strikes did not discriminate. Saturday could taste the blood in his mouth, the piercing in his tongue scraping uncomfortably against his palate, and one fist knocked a few teeth from his mouth. The Witness landed a hit directly on the bridge of his nose, and blood ran backward into his throat. The pain was agonizing, his head bobbing back and forth between the suited man's knuckles and the metal surface on which he lay. The Caretaker had subjected them to great pain during their training so as to prepare them for anything; but that was so long ago, and he had since gone without ever once experiencing such excruciation.

The Witness went at it with both hands now, alternating left and right, a well-oiled machine that knew no fatigue. Saturday tried to block with his arms, but was growing dizzy, his vision blurring from the tears that welled in his eyes. And his awareness was diminishing as well; it was as though he were losing himself, somehow. As one who had been fully conscious since the first moment of his existence, it was an alarming sensation.

Then, to the Guardian's amazement, the suited man gripped his shirt and held a single fist in the air, where it began to glow, bathed in a warm light. The energy pooled to his clenched fist, saturating it; his forearm was shaking as he attempted to keep the increased vibration under control, and tiny arcs of lightning crackled over his skin. He held the glowing fist over the air, a hammer waiting to fall. With great dread, Saturday wondered if he was going to die. Was it even possible for him to die? And if he could, what would happen to him when the Witness dealt that final blow?

_...No...No...I must...I must get away..._

He struggled against his assailant's grip. It was imperative that he escape, so that he might continue to carry out his Father's Will, to assist his brothers in procuring the Beacon.

To live.

The Witness appeared to hesitate, and that was all it took. Saturday ripped free from his would-be executioner's clutches, and in what the Witness least expected, the Guardian simply fell through the surface of the train car just as the energized fist was falling. The entire metal roof buckled from the impact, and short-lived electric arcs snaked across. In his surprise, he lost his concentration, resuming real-time existence, the train rocking along its tracks with the wind howling past.

He spun around, only to see the Guardian hovering toward him, holding a kick; Saturday had Tunnelled into the cabin beneath him, ran up to the front of the train, then leaped backward up through the roof, letting the train's momentum deliver the Witness straight into the sole of his outstretched shoe. The suited man had no time to react; the kick connected on the shoulder at speeds of sixty kilometers per hour, and Saturday could feel something crunch beneath his foot. Saturday landed on the dented roof, but the Witness twirled off the train and tumbled down a hill and into a ditch.

Saturday remained on the train, watching the site of his adversary's downfall dwindle in size as he sped away, anchoring his feet on the train via Tunnelling for added stability. He took the moment of respite to spit out blood before wiping the blood seeping from his nostrils. Blood was also seeping into his eye, the piercing on his brow having been ripped off by the Witness. His head pounded savagely, his face was ravaged, and his body was aching from the concussive potency of the energy rounds.

But he had emerged victorious.

The Guardian lingered on the rocking train for several minutes before he set out west into the Australasian horizon.

And this time, he didn't look back.


	17. Chapter 16: Antithesis

Chapter 16: Antithesis

An agonized February lied in the ditch long after the train had left him behind.

He brought his hand to his left shoulder, only to cringe; his collarbone had been shattered. The spectacular tumble he experienced upon being ejected from the train certainly didn't help, sending searing pain shooting in his already damaged shoulder in addition to bestowing him with a healthy serving of bruises and aches.

It was a slow rise, but rise he did, brushing the grass off his suit with his right arm, for his left arm would cry out at the slightest movement. He had landed in a ditch where a small creek ran. The back and side of his suit were soiled by the moist dirt that made up in the creek's banks, which he tried as best he could to wipe off. He scaled the hill by the creek's side; the nearby tracks extended back to Melbourne in one direction, and to further wilderness in the other, with vast fields interspersed with trees. The Aube Division Witness had the sudden urge to examine his belongings, wondering if anything was damaged during the fall. He still had a wallet, thankfully, and his pocket watch functioned as it should.

His MultiCell was intact as well. He flipped it open, revealing the circular screen and the keys arrayed in concentric rings. It occurred to him that he should probably contact someone – January, or perhaps the Overseer – but all he could do was stare at the black screen, recalling his bout with the Guardian.

For all his knowledge and expertise in the calculation and manipulation of probabilities, the Witness was astonished by the Guardian's sudden arrival. The Guardian could have been anywhere, so the chances that they would occupy the same location at that precise time in that precise reality were staggering. And yet it happened nonetheless, despite those odds.

He was terminating a call to the Aube Division Arbiter when it happened. The sounds of landing footsteps caught his attention, and he swivelled to see a bald man devoid of eyebrows, wearing a black longcoat over a dark suit. February also saw that the Guardian had black flesh tunnels in his earlobes, as well as his other piercings. Many of the humans liked to insert metal into their faces and bodies. Did all Guardians also have such adornments?

Then he saw the peculiar device the Guardian had been holding, which he had slowly tucked away into his long coat pocket. Did he use it to track February to Melbourne? He had been shifting from Perth to a few other Australasian cities over the course of the previous night, deciding to see a few sights on his way to Melbourne, there to observe a Minor Event in the morning. But the Guardians were trying to find the Beacon, and the cylinder was certainly not anywhere in Australasia; Sector Iota-1 was a long way from Sector Beta-2.

What use was there in tracking down Witness, then? Did this Guardian intend to extort the Beacon's location from him?

There had been no time for questions. The Gemini Protocol was in effect, commanding all Witnesses to strike against Guardians without question. As Mercedony instructed, he obeyed, and he had produced his Pulse Pistol to that end.

_My Pulse Pistol...I...I should go back and search for it. _

Standing in Melbourne's outlying fields, he set his sights back to the city, closed his eyes, and unobserved, walked the Roads Less Travelled By.

He was standing on the summit of the skyscraper, now. The city was awake, and the Witness could hear the sounds of traffic down below, the sounds of Melbourne yawning and stretching in the light of the morning sun. He limped to the edge of the roof, peering into the depths that the Guardian had intended to drag him down to from atop the skyscraper February now stood on. At one point in their cross-city chase, the Guardian had eluded him for a time, hiding from sight; having no way to intuit his presence, February had trouble finding his opponent. He had searched near the area the Guardian had vanished from before spanning outward. Had the Guardian managed to escape? Across the city, he zoomed, shifting from point to point to point, unwilling to let his target get away.

It was by no small chance that he spotted him in the distance on a tall skyscraper from atop another. The Guardian had proved to be a clever adversary, his movements swift and unpredictable. He further cemented his reputation by spearing February over the edge without warning. The man in the long coat was learning fast, gripping him tightly and staring at him the whole way down with wide eyes and a large grin; it seemed he had deduced that February's shifting ability was linked to observation, just as the Witness had figured that the Guardian was incapable of using the RLTB due to his greater partiality to the Equation.

He had used his weaknesses against him, much to February's dismay. Fortunately, the Witness had been able to break free, shifting to another location just as his arm came into contact with the asphalt; a moment later, he would have impacted the ground at high velocity, and he didn't want to think about what might have happened then.

_The Pistol. _

It was here that he lost his pistol, falling from his hands as they careened into the air. It should still be nearby, unless a human had taken it. He had to find it, though, regardless of where it might be. There... there was work to be done, always work to be done.

Recalling the trajectory of the weapon as it had fallen, he shifted to the adjacent building, shorter than the skyscraper he had stood on seconds prior. He did not find it there, however, so it must have landed somewhere on ground level. He heightened his temporal rate and went to work, shifting on the sidewalk and walking around the nigh-frozen street, scanning for his discarded gun, operating faster than the humans could perceive. It was harder to maintain his temporal rate; such a thing required high concentration, and his pain was an ever-present distraction.

He ended up finding the weapon nestled in a pile of garbage bags beside a dumpster in the alley between the skyscraper and the next building over. He grabbed it, wielding it in his right hand. He could feel his internal energy reserves charging the pistol, showing that it was still functional. Sounds flooded his ears; his concentration had lapsed, and he was now operating in real-time. A brief wind reminded him that his head was exposed. He ran his good hand over his smooth cranium.

_My hat...where did I leave it?_

Some passersby saw the injured man in the dirty suit with a gun in the alley, poised to make a commotion. The Witness turned and left, hobbling away from their eyes, and shifted his location once he turned the alley's corner.

He found himself at the docks, the place where the battle he had initiated began. February had come here following the observation of his Minor Event observation, drawn by the imposing cargo ship he saw. It was still there when he arrived by the dock's edge, but this time, the humans were loading crates on and off the ship, preparing the ship for its impending voyage. Looking around, he couldn't see his fedora. He had lost it when the Guardian had knocked his pistol away and delivered his elbow and subsequent kick, causing him to bleed from his mouth. When had been the last time he had bled? He couldn't remember. In fact, it took him a moment to remember what that red substance had even been.

With the fedora still eluding him, he set out into the shipping container labyrinth. Soon enough, he found it; or rather, a stevedore did, picking it up from the ground and examining it, curious. February bridged the distance when he wasn't looking, shifting closer, and the stevedore was startled at the sight of the bald man in a soiled suit and injured disposition.

"That is my hat," he said. "May I have it?"

"Uh...sure."

February received the hat, placing it onto his head.

"You alright, mate?" asked the stevedore. "You're lookin' kinda rough."

"Yes. I will be fine."

"If you say so," said the human uneasily. "What are you doing here, anyway? You're not even supposed to be here."

"I can explain." He took out his MultiCell, pressed a few keys, then showed the screen to the stevedore.

"The hell's this? Three green lights an' a red one?"

But he could not take his eyes off the pattern, and in moments, he was docile and malleable.

"When I count to three," said February, putting away his MultiCell, "you will wait until I leave, after which you will resume your work as though I had never been here, and you will forget having ever seen me. One... two... three."

The man stood, unresponsive, and February took the opportunity to take his leave. He found his way back to water's edge, watching the cargo freighter lumber into the greater port beyond. Where had the Guardian fled? February had noticed that his foe had been using some technique to move through objects, but it was only as he gripped him on the train that he had seen the ability head on, with the Guardian wrenching himself free and phasing through the hull, only to exploit the train's momentum to deliver that final flying kick.

The Witness remembered concentrating large amounts of energy into his fist, as a natural extension of his ability to discharge energy through his digits. He had lost himself in his flurry of punches, settling into a clockwork rhythm, bent on exterminating the threat pinned on the back of a moving train. As he had held his fist overhead, surging with potent energy, he hesitated. The blow would surely be fatal to a human, but was it possible for a Guardian die? And if he could, what would happen to this one when he brought his fist down?

It was this brief instance of respite that was his undoing, the Guardian not hesitating to exploit the opening. And now he was gone, having departed to the west, and February had no means to track him.

What would January think when he learns that February allowed the Guardian to get away? What would the Overseer think when he learns that his agent had failed him?

Status updates would have to wait; first, he would need medical attention for his injuries. He would have to locate a Proxy Safe House to mend his collarbone and tend to his wounds. And it dawned on him that he was famished. The expenditure of energy from the use of his Pulse Pistol – but primarily from the energized fist – had drained him of considerable strength, and while his internal energy levels would return to equilibrium in time, sustenance aided the process along. Perhaps he could also have the Proxies prepare him a large meal, and have some jazz music play on those record players. He liked jazz.

February retreated to the corridors of the container towers, but not before a stevedore saw a strange suited man near the edge of the dock wearing an oddly familiar hat.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The waitress tried to be courteous despite her discomfort, which could be easily read in her mind by the hairless men she was serving.

"How might I serve you?" the Turkish waitress asked.

"I will have some baklava, I think," replied the man with the rings on his fingers in flawless Turkish. "With ayran."

"Yes," said the one with the tattoo crawling up his neck. "As will I."

"Of course. Two baklavas and some ayran."

She nodded and sped off, leaving the Guardians to the company of their small round table.

It was hot outside, the archways of the semi-open cafe allowing the heat to seep in, though it was no impediment to the Guardians. Besides, it was nothing compared to the Saudi Arabian desert, which they had crossed from the Indian Ocean, breaching Jordan and Lebanon to enter the Mediterranean.

They had stopped on Cyprus to hail Saturday, wondering how his search was going. He told them little, but what he did say was cause enough to reconvene as soon as possible. Their agreed place of congregation was an old city that has had many names, though the Guardians remembered when it was known simply as Byzantion. They had visited the city often in both Solve and Coagula over the ages, and decided it would serve their needs.

Saturday had made his way back to Perth when they last called, so it would take about five and a half hours for him to reach Istanbul. Wednesday and Thursday had arrived just over twenty minutes after Cyprus, where it was midday. That left them five hours to burn, which they did in various ways, exploring the ancient city for sights old and new, watching street performers and musicians and other such entertainment, browsing curiosities of all kinds scattered in shops and kiosks. At times, they went forth as a pair, at times splitting up.

But most of all, they observed the humans and their interactions from afar. Of course, they could foresee their actions and intuit their thoughts, so there were no surprises to be found. And humans as a whole have not changed much over thousands of years, their actions driven by baser instincts, most of the time without their active awareness. Yet the Guardians derived satisfaction from this predictability. It was like a stage play you've seen many times before, Wednesday had said, with all the pieces and motions familiar to you, though Thursday noted he personally preferred improvisational comedy over theater.

Late in the afternoon, they reunited in a small cafe in the Fatih district, where one end of the Bosphorus strait met the Sea of Marmara, connecting that body of water to the Black Sea. The waitress brought them their slices of baklava and their glasses of ayran, the beverage of yoghurt, cold water, and salt that was a staple of Turkish gastronomy. They could no taste much, admittedly, but the distant sweetness of the yoghurt and the salted counterpoint provided interesting conflict, especially after saturating their respective drinks with half a salt shaker each.

Yet even after finishing their delicacies, Saturday had yet to appear. Punctuality was a trait rooted so deep in their behaviour that the two Guardians suspected the worse.

They were deliberating on potential causes of delay when Saturday appeared.

Wednesday and Thursday both rose at the sight of their brother, startled by the sight of his bruised and battered face, of his black eye and swollen other eye, of his bruised cheekbone and cut lip. Saturday walked slowly, ignoring the looks of surrounding patrons; Thursday went to fetch another seat as Wednesday went over to his brother and assisted in the seating. Following this, the others sat down.

"So it is true," said Thursday. "You fought with one."

"Yes." He seemed at once pleased and brooding. "I did."

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

Without waiting for an answer, Thursday summoned the waitress and order baklava and ayran for the third man in an urging voice that sent her practically running. She returned promptly and let them be.

"We used up the salt, so the drink will be less savoury," explained Thursday. "But you must be in need of sustenance after your voyage here." He waited for Saturday to down the glass in one go before continuing. "Tell us how it went. The altercation. You were the victor, yes?"

"I was. We ended up on a train. He had pinned me down on the roof. He held me tight, and I could not escape from his blows. Then, he focused some sort of kinetic or electric energy into his fist."

"Energy?" said Wednesday, amazed. "They can do this?"

Saturday nodded. "But before he could hit me, I managed to break free and use Tunnelling to surprise him. I kicked him off the train, and he tumbled down a hill."

"Is he... was he _eliminated_?"

"I cannot say," said Saturday in answer to Thursday's query. By this point, his two brothers were leaning forward, engrossed in the account of the battle. "He did not pursue me, but I did not stay to ascertain his condition."

"Why did you not?" asked Wednesday. "It would have been prudent to see –"

"I was trying to escape." The way he said it was unsettling to the other two. "He was strong, brothers. Stronger than we had anticipated. You said we could stand our own against them, Thursday, but it took great effort to stand my ground. He was highly adept at physical combat. And they have weapons, pistols that emit energetic pulses. They...they were painful." The eyes of his brothers flared. "His shots prevented me from getting close. And he possessed the ability to alter his probable location while unobserved. I...could not defeat him, so I attempted to escape."

There was a moment of silence, which Thursday terminated. "You could not defeat him?"

"No. He followed me across the city, hunting me. I tried to hide, and I thought it would work, but he found me. I tried to use his weaknesses against him, but he thwarted my plans. It was only by a minute lapse on his part that I managed to best him. They are stronger, more numerous, and have superior weaponry and abilities. I do not think that our chances against them lean in our favour."

Saturday finished on a note of despondence. There was a heaviness to the air for some time, distinct from the weight of the heat, but an unannounced fist on the table on Wednesday's part lifted the pall.

"Those things are irrelevant," said Wednesday, resolute. "Once we have obtained the Beacon, they will not be able to stop us."

"...Yes," said Saturday. "I suppose you are correct. Speaking of the Beacon, how has your search been progressing?"

Wednesday and Thursday exchanged looks. "Actually," said the latter, "we too stumbled upon an interfering signal."

"Did you locate the source?" asked Saturday, preparing to take a bite of his baklava. "What was it?"

"We encountered the People of the Mountains," said Wednesday.

Saturday hand froze, the fork he held midway between the plate and his mouth. "Father had told us of them at one point, did he not?"

"Yes," continued Wednesday. "He said that we would not need to worry about them. Their leader assured us of the same thing, as it happened. They had unearthed a curious object in Sri Lanka, which turned out to be the source of the signal. Stranger still was that they attacked us, mistaking us for Witnesses."

"Witnesses?" said Saturday, mouth full of baklava.

"Yes. It seems there is some kind of binding pact between the Overseer and the People of the Mountains, and they thought we had breached their terms."

"Did you learn why there exists such a pact between them?"

"We did not. Though it is intriguing, I must admit. As is the nature of the object they were excavating."

"Saturday," said Thursday. "I am curious. The Witness was the anomaly, yes? How was he interfering with your compass?"

"I have pondered on this on my way here, actually. I suspect it is because the Witnesses emit a frequency close to the Beacon's own."

"Of course," said Wednesday. "They were made from the Beacon; it is only natural that they would also share the same frequency."

"This search is proving fraught with surprises, it seems," noted Thursday. "I wonder what others we may find. They will not be unpleasant, I hope."

"We will only know if we continue the search," replied Saturday. "We should depart."

They nodded, and, having no Turkish liras on their person, Thursday paid their dues with a debit card, using the large funds in their private accounts to cover the costs. The trio exited the small cafe and rose to higher ground, scaling a mosque and staring out the Sea of Marmara from a high balcony.

"The bearing has not changed," said Wednesday, observing his compass. "The Beacon's path remains on a course to the northwest."

"That will lead us to Europe," said Saturday.

A squicking noise caught Thursday's attention, and he turned to see Saturday's tongue toying with the gap in his upper teeth.

"You have lost your tooth," he observed.

"Several, actually."

"Will you have them replaced?"

"Eventually, yes. In fact, I think I may acquire golden teeth."

"Golden teeth?" said Wednesday after some thought. "Yes, I think it would suit you well."

Wednesday's eyes drifted to his fingers and to the rings that adorned them, three on his left pinky, ring, and index fingers, and two on his right index and middle ones. He had acquired a large collection of rings over the course of his existence, changing which ones he wore whenever he would visit the Nexus Point. But in its destruction, his collection had been lost, and only the five he currently wore remained, the five he was wearing on the day of the Tunguska Event.

From the beginning, the Caretaker had encouraged individuality in his Guardians, and each agent sought to distinguish themselves in various ways, both physically and in their many interests. Wednesday had his rings, Thursday had a body covered in tattoos, Saturday had his piercings; Monday had his adoration of poetry, Tuesday enjoyed playing scrolling shooters on maximum difficulty, and even Sunday had a couple of hobbies, most prominent among them squash.

_Remember who you are, as well as what you fight for._

Such had been the Caretaker's answer to their questions on the importance of individuality during their training in the chambers of Neksus Mesto, where they were taught all that they knew. Seeing what the Witnesses have done to his brother, Wednesday was reminded of who he was, and what he fought for.

_I am a Guardian, and it is balance that I fight for._

Wednesday propelled himself off the railing of the mosque's balcony, and his brothers followed close behind, the Beacon's distant cry urging them onward.


	18. Chapter 17: Nothing So Simple

Chapter 17: Nothing So Simple

What were they supposed to do now?

To have made it so close, only to have it all unravel in moments. Crow had those interlopers to thank for that, for chasing Gottfried and his Hybrid lackeys away. Who knows what they were plotting, what Next Big First Wave Development the Liberation Front had stumbled upon? They might have actually found out if ZFT had not barged in to ruin all the fun.

_I would have gotten away with it, too,_ _if it weren't for those meddling ZFT kids and their pesky Lenny!_

But there was nothing to be done. Their sole lead had slipped through their fingers, and the odds of finding new leads in the three days that remained were already astronomical enough; finding any one of those six Hybrids in particular would be impossible, to use so tepid a term.

Walking alone that Friday morning in the eternally bustling city, Crow tried to rationalize the events of the previous night. Was this the universe trying to balance itself, counteracting the improbable feat of making a breakthrough by taking it away from them? Had they violated some sort of unwritten metaphysical rule or principle, or was the universe simply as cruel a place as many would assert it was?

In his reflection, he came to realize the answer was much simpler.

He had been a fool.

For who would be so foolish as to try and break into the big leagues in so big a playing field with so few players? It was little wonder that he had tasted defeat before he could even make his first move.

He recalled his first encounter with the Son of Sarek, where they witnessed a similar ZFT-Hybrid firefight. According to Spock, there exists no substantial information on the group save the rare obscure references and handful of unsubstantiated theories in corners of the web that seldom saw light; to pursue them was therefore an equally invalid option. Old Roger had also informed them of the conflict going on in New York's underbelly between the two factions in their barrel fire discussion, but the Liberation Front certainly hadn't expected to be caught in the middle of it all.

_Damn it._

He passed a guy with dreads busking with some sick fingerstyle playing, a kid having a majestic tantrum with everyone else as spectators, a group protest with speakerphones and picket signs advocating the right to gay marriage, and more, yet he paid mind to none of it. All around him, life plodded on, indifferent to his plight, and it didn't help in the slightest that he also had no choice but to plod onward also.

Central Park's treeline appeared in the distance as he neared Columbus Circle, a green splash of vibrancy that energized the city's restrained colour scheme. It was a rather nice day, unlike those that had preceded it all week, the sun appearing in a sky scarce with clouds. The masses had unsurprisingly pounced at the opportunity to enjoy the good weather, buzzing about in droves. Dan stopped by a hot dog vendor's cart, waiting in line to get a snack of his own. When his turn came, he ordered one of the thick-sausaged treats, garnished with the traditional dual ketchup and mustard lining and a coat of shredded onions. Fingering his wallet for cash and looking around, Dan decided that while Manhattan was certainly a nice place, he was itching to return to his native Boston and to his familiar bed despite having almost been killed in it recently.

Munching on his hotdog, he crossed the street, thinking perhaps a walk in Central Park would help clear his mind.

"Excuse me, sir!"

Dan didn't realize he was being addressed until a hand perched itself on his shoulder. He turned around to see a man who appeared to be in his late forties. Wearing dark jeans and a plain blue button shirt, he held a strong, dimpled jaw and a high forehead under a slightly receding hairline. Soft lines traced his face, creased his forehead, crinkled the corners of his steely eyes, which, while a striking blue-grey, somehow had a certain warmth to them.

"You dropped your wallet," said the man, holding the brown leather case up for him to see.

Crow said nothing, simply swallowing the partially-mashed contents of his mouth, his mind drawing a blank.

_Oh God. _

"...Are you alright there, buddy?"

"Uh...yeah. Thanks."

Dan accepted the wallet, which the Good Samaritan placed in his hands; and at some level, he remained aware of how strangely he was staring at the stranger.

"No problem. You might want to be sure you tuck your wallet safely next time." The man bore a friendly, earnest smile, one of many signs hinting to his belonging to the dying race that was the good-natured, down-to-earth person. "Well, have a nice day, now."

The guy waved as he turned to leave, causing Dan's distress to skyrocket. An alarmed voice pierced through the crippling surreality of what was happening.

_You're letting him get away!_

There was only seconds to act, and this second chance would have dissipated for good. There could be no complacency this time.

Against all sane counsel, he chose the bolder route.

"You too, Gottfried," called Crow.

Hearing his name, the Hybrid stopped slowly, then turned, bearing the bemused smirk one gives when things become interesting. Hands in his pockets, he casually strode to Dan, studying him in the process.

"Lovely day, isn't it, Daniel?" he said. "What do you say you and I go for a walk?"

Without waiting for an answer, Gottfried went past Dan to the nearest entry into Central Park, an invitation Dan accepted moments later.

The stark trees were beginning to bud, and it was under the web-like canopy of their intertwined branches that the two walked without a hurry along the asphalt path lined on either side by short fences. The dissonance was almost unbearable; here he was, walking alongside his sworn enemy, yet he possessed this approachable, well-intentioned amity that made him far less threatening than Dan thought a Shapeshifter should be. He wondered if the man who died to give Gottfried his current face had been just as friendly.

"I don't think we've formally met," said the Hybrid before extending a hand. "Vincent Allen Gottfried, First-Generation Hybrid and commander of the First Wave."

Dan's mind stalled. First-Generation? Commander? _Vincent?_ With trepidation, he shook Gottfried's firm hand, surprised at how..._human_ it felt.

"Daniel Thompson," said Dan, ending the shake. "Though I guess you already knew that."

"You'd be surprised what you can learn about a person by looking into their wallet."

Dan nodded, disappointed that his reputation had yet to reach the point where his name would enter the awareness of the Shapeshifter higher-ups. Although, there was always the possibility that perhaps Gottfried was too high along the chain of command to bother dealing with small fries like the Liberation Front.

"I imagine you didn't see my name in _my_ wallet, though," continued Gottfried as they resumed their languid pace.

"We were there when ZFT crashed your tea party last night."

The Hybrid seemed astonished. "Is that right? Huh. I didn't even see you. But then again, with everything happening all at once, it's easy to lose track of the details. In any case, I'm guessing a thirty-two year-old man from Somerville doesn't end up in the underground tunnel network of Manhattan by accident. I'm curious as to how you ended up down there."

Dan mused on whether it was wise to divulge anything to a First Wave commander. What was Gottfried's game? There was no chance of open confrontation with so many people around, though knowing this didn't make sharing the Hybrid's presence any less disquieting. Without the physical, then, only the mental remained; it was clear that Gottfried was in a talking mood, and if Dan humoured whatever mindgames his companion had in store, there was a chance he might derive useful information.

"We were looking for Shapeshifters," he began. "Someone led us underground to possible hotspots, and we got lucky."

"Not lucky enough, apparently," said Gottfried. "You must have shown up right when ZFT did, or else we could have gotten acquainted much sooner. Those guys can be a pain in the ass sometimes."

"No kidding."

_At least we agree on something, _thought Crow.

"So tell me, Daniel. How's being a Hybrid hunter working out for you?"

"Pretty well, actually," said Crow. "We shredded one of your underground lairs with some sort of vacuum grenade, and we recently blew up a Titan facility."

He tried to make his delivery straightforward, but pride nonetheless showed up in his words; these feats _were_ impressive, considering they were a bunch of amateurs. Apparently, Gottfried thought the same, raising his barely-present eyebrows.

"I heard of those incidents. Well, you've certainly been busy. Nicely done."

"You're glad?" asked Dan, puzzled at the Hybrid's appraisal.

"Of course. I'd rather the people of this world fight back than simply accept their fate, even if resistance will make it all the more tragic in the end."

The path they walked was now following the edges of the wide expanse that was Sheep's Meadow. The field was flecked with human activity, mostly comprising of people crossing it as a shortcut. Some, however, had come to bask in the heretofore rarefied sunlight; Dan spotted a trio playing Frisbee with a dog, a couple of kids manning a kite, and even a family picnic, spread over a plaid blanket and enjoying a homemade banquet.

Hybrid and human came to a halt just of the path, standing before Sheep's Meadow on the gentle grassy incline between the thick bodies of trees.

"_This world_, huh?" said Dan, staring at the human beings in the clearing. "I suppose this means that you guys are aliens."

Gottfried smirked. "I'm an artificially-designed biomechanical hybrid, actually. Though I suppose I do constitute an alien, on the account that I'm not from this world. And neither are my creators."

"Let me guess. Romulans, right?" When Gottfried stared nonplussed, Dan shook his head. "Nevermind. Stupid joke."

"I see. Well, I'll just say that those of this world and mine own have more in common than you might think."

The dog in the field caught the Frisbee, clamping it between its jaws in a single graceful bound.

"What_ is_ the First Wave, Gottfried?" asked Dan. "And the Second and Omega Waves? What is it you want with our world? Are you planning a global invasion?"

"It's nothing like that, I assure you," answered the Hybrid. "Though you sure do know a lot more than I expected." Gottfried paused in consideration. "You seem like a pretty decent guy, Daniel, so I'll try to give you the abridged version. Long story short, because of things that happened decades ago, every single living thing in this world must die."

Dan's head turned to look at Gottfried, who continued to observe the living things in the meadow.

"...You're going to wipe us all out?"

It took a moment for Dan to process the immensity of the prospect. He knew they were plotting something huge, but this? Dan found it impossible to fathom why mankind would warrant such a fate, a perplexity that Gottfried noticed when he glanced at him.

"Why are you looking at me?" he asked. "We didn't start this. You were the ones who struck first." Upon seeing Dan's bewilderment, he sighed to himself. "There's a lot you don't know, Daniel. Things you're perhaps better off _not_ knowing. I may just be a soldier created to follow orders, but there isn't a moment where I forget how terrible a thing it is that we're doing. But as unfortunate as it may be, this is the only solution."

"The only solution?" asked Dan, his tone irate. "To what problem? The _human_ problem? What the hell have we done to upset Mein Fuhrer back at Hybrid HQ?"

"This isn't something of hatred, Daniel," Gottfried reminded him. "It's about survival. You struck first, we struck back. Simple as that."

"What do you mean, _we_ struck first?"

"Not you, specifically. And that's why this whole thing is tragic; this entire world has pay the price for a single man's sins. So if you remember only one thing, remember that this isn't personal. We're simply fighting for our survival, just as you are."

"I don't know about you," said Dan, "but the extinction of an entire species seems a bit _overkill_ as a self-defense measure, if you ask me."

"I _completely _agree," affirmed the Hybrid. "And if you ever come to realize the full extent of what's going on and find an alternative solution to the problem, we'd be all ears, because we've yet to find any on our end. But until then, this is just the way it'll have to be. Only one side can remain standing when it's all said and done. "

A silence ensued, during which Dan digested Gottfried's explanation. Why did everything have to be so _grey_? And at that, why did Gottfried have to be such a nice damn guy? It would have been so much easier if things were in black and white. But it would also be far less realistic; as he was consistently discovering in his quest to defeat the First Wave, nothing was ever so simple.

"No need to look so down, Daniel. Sure, it's kind of a buzzkill, but it doesn't mean you have to stop fighting the good fight."

"Maybe we'll start with those Yggdrasil Seeds of yours," replied Dan. "I imagine those things are an important part of your 'solution'. Mind giving the underdog a bone?"

"Dinner and a movie first," said Gottfried. "Then we can talk about more intimate matters."

"I didn't expect a Shapeshifter such as yourself to be so classy."

"Oh, I'm not a Shapeshifter. Only Second-Generation Hybrids can change their appearances."

"What? So you've only ever had one face?"

"Yup. Good thing they gave me a stunning mug instead of an ugly one, eh?"

He gave a charming smile, exuding his best Hollywood flair. If Gottfried had not previously displayed his penchant for underplayed wit, Dan might have taken him for a self-absorbed douche, but his tongue-in-cheek manner made him that much more affable, and that much harder to hate.

"So if you're not a Shapeshifter, then... what exactly are you?"

"I'm a Hybrid, just as the ones you call Shapeshifters. I was created long before the creation of what you call the First Wave, though, and have been around much longer. The Second-Gen Hybrids only started pouring through around 1990."

That was the year Dan saw his first Shapeshifter. It was surprising to think that they had just begun their operation just as he had been starting high school, though it only made him wonder just how longer Gottfried and the other First-Generation Hybrids have been walking among them.

"You expect us to fail, don't you?" said Dan. "Why else would you bother telling me so much?"

Gottfried gave him a knowing look. "ZFT is our main adversary," he explained. "They're a global organization of scientists and bioterrorists divided into three primary cells, each headed by a captain. They have advanced technology and weaponry at their disposal, as well as massive resources and wealth, and they've been around almost as long as the First Wave has. And yet, they struggle to keep up with us at every turn. Does your group have a name, by any chance?"

"Yeah. We call ourselves the Liberation Front."

"You're part of the Liberation Front? Well, I guess that explains things."

"You've heard of us?" asked Crow.

"Of course. You've been running around New York for the past few months, trying to disrupt our operations and taking out the occasional Hybrid or two. Didn't know you guys branched out to Boston, though. In any case, you've had some success, but nothing substantial. If ZFT is an annoying rash that won't go away, the Liberation Front is a single pimple on an otherwise unblemished face. I admire your tenacity and intentions, Daniel – and a civilian resistance is both impressive and commendable – but unfortunately, you have next to no chances of even beginning to posing a threat to us. I won't stop you from trying, of course, but if I were you, I'd lower my expectations significantly."

"Well, at least you're honest," said Dan. In truth, he wanted to say that Gottfried was _brutally_ honest, seeing as the Hybrid had just given him a cold reality check.

"I would be doing you a disservice if I wasn't," replied the Hybrid. Birds chirped overhead as they flew past, praising the idyllic morning. Gottfried took in a deep inhalation through the nostrils. "Man, what a beautiful day. I suggest you enjoy it, because you won't be around to enjoy days like these for much longer. But who knows, maybe there still hope for your side yet. I guess only time will tell." He turned to face Dan. "I'd better be on my way. I got my super-secret Shapeshifter business to deal with and all. I enjoyed our little chat today, Daniel. If we meet again – and I sure hope we do – maybe we can do this again."

"You can count on it," said Dan, shaking the Hybrid's achingly real hand once more.

"See you around, then."

With a curt nod and a last glance at Sheep's Meadow, Vincent Allen Gottfried went on his way, following the walkway and melding into the crowd.

After the Hybrid commander disappeared from sight, Crow rubbed his face, the tension leaving his body all at once. With an annoyed sigh, he began the lengthy process of sorting out the Jeopardy-level amount of Shapeshifter trivia imparted to him. Yet with all the fascinating and disturbing tidbits ricocheting inside his skull, one of them stood out foremost.

How could Gottfried know of the Liberation Front without having heard of Daniel Thompson or Crow? And the Liberation Front had only been in New York little over a week, not months. Old Roger also knew of their organization somehow. Did both the vagabond and the Hybrid know something Dan didn't? Standing by himself at the edge of the clearing, he determined that there could only be one explanation, and the implications were as intriguing as they were troubling.

Resolute, he left the people of Sheep's Meadow, the inhabitants of the world he swore to protect, to their own devices – not even sure that every one of them were flesh-and-blood humans – and set off on the asphalt veins of Central Park. He would find Gottfried again, alright, and put a stop to whatever the hell plan he was orchestrating.

But first, there was someone he needed to pay a little visit to.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The shopping cart came to a stop in the alleyway sometime after noon, its handler having not expected to find anyone else there.

"Well," said the vagabond, a bit nervously. "Uh...Crow, is it? What can I do for ya?"

Crow was sitting on a wooden box, having waited there for who knows how long. Addressed, he rose from his seat and approached Old Roger, flashing a folded green sheet held between his fingers. Then, he took the homeless man's wrist and stuffed the two twenty-dollar bills in his fingerless-gloved hand.

"What's this for?"

"This," said Crow, "is for your services. You're taking me to the Liberation Front."


	19. Chapter 18: A Missing Child

Chapter 18: A Missing Child

The walls in September's old examination room were charred black, as were the table and chairs. Only the Overseer, the area directly behind him, and a small patch of white wall in the corner remained unblemished by the pyrokinetic blast.

_Jacques! Where has the child gone?_

"Recherche en progression."

The boy's trauma went deeper than he had expected. It was his time in the hands of Nazi captors that had instilled his recent muteness, but he had existed in his current state for far, far longer than seventy years, and there was damage done during that time as well. And while he had suspected it all along, only now after viewing Isen's unrepressed memories was his theory confirmed beyond doubt.

He turned around to face the table. The holographic module's outer casing was partially melted, wisps of smoke rising from its crippled husk, and the briefcase on the floor had also suffered a beating, as had Isen's backpack, the plastic melted and warped from the flash of heat. A gloved fist smashed down on the blackened table's surface; during his examination of Isen at the laboratories, he had entertained the grossly unlikely notion that the boy's exposure to Void energy had been due to a freak natural occurrence, but it was clear that Isen's change had been no accident.

Mercedony's Ouroboros-head cane had been spared damage, luckily, as it had been leaning against the portion of wall that the flames the Overseer mentally redirected did not touch. He swiped it in a single brusque motion and stormed out the burnt exam room, striding down the corridor.

_Jacques –_

"I know, I know," replied Jacques, still in French. "I'm trying as best as I can, but I'm having trouble getting a clear fix on his location."

Returning to the recreational area, the Overseer sighed to himself. It seemed Isen's innate abilities had also been suppressed – or at least, used infrequently. That much was clear by the way Isen had employed them in the exam room, for after viewing the boy's relived memories, he had deduced that Isen had learned to associate his power – the power they sought to harness – to his treatment at the hands of his captors, and therefore, the source of his trauma, hence why he had remained in the bunker for seventy years instead of teleporting his way out at any time.

That dam had sundered, however, and now he had a frightened child whizzing all over the place with no control over his power.

_Do you at least have an idea of the general area he is in?_

"Currently, he appears to be somewhere in the R&D department."

_Off._

At that command, Jacques's surveillance systems shut down, and now unobserved, Mercedony was free to shift his location. With the ease of walking, he shifted to the R&D department of Für Immer. First, he visited the Tech Development section, a spacious area where new technologies were designed, built, and assembled. Isen was neither in the areas designated for Weapons, Communications, or Specialized devices, though, so he altered his location to the Testing Chamber one level below, an L-shaped area comprising of a row of compartmentalized chambers used for testing, and a firing range around the bend for weapons testing.

He made a quick pass into each compartment, but it was at the firing range that Isen suddenly appeared, sandwiched in the middle of the lanes between the Overseer at one end and the target dummies at the other. Seeing Mister Richards, Isen turn to run, only for his body to flicker and vanish from the range. That the boy could achieve this with the Overseer observing him was the key marker that showed he was employing teleportation as opposed to probable location shifting; such a method was less efficient and required more energy than employment of the RLTB, as one needed to wrap a portal around one's body and project a second portal at the desired location to jump between points in space.

But Isen was an exceptionally powerful individual, especially now that he was in an augmented state thanks to Void energy exposure, so he would not be tiring anytime soon. And in his frantic emotional state, the boy's focus would be lessened, so there was a danger that, not being familiar with Für Immer's layout, he might project a portal into a wall or in the dirt surrounding the subterranean facility. He would need to capture the child, and soon.

_On. Where is he now?_

Visual and tracking systems now reactivated, Jacques responded. "Searching. He's in the Biology Lab."

_Off._

The Overseer shifted to the Biology Lab, which was close to the Medical Observation Room where he had examined Isen. The boy wasn't in the main research area, but Mercedony did find him inside the Surgical Room, outfitted specifically for surgical procedures and autopsies. Whimpering at the sudden intrusion of Mister Richards, Isen darted under a metal tray.

_Isen, wait! That was not me you were seeing!_

But the child had already teleported away by the time the Overseer knelt to look under the tray.

_On._

"My sensors detect that he is still moving around the Labs," said Jacques a moment later, now knowing exactly what his master required of him.

_Off._

Mercedony shifted rapidly to the various specialized units that comprised the Lab section of Für Immer. He shifted to the Specimen Unit, a series of interconnected compartments which once housed animal and plant species for study, as well as microorganisms, including bacteria and viruses. They were all empty, now, the Overseer having gradually changed his focus over time from the pursuit of knowledge to the continuing refinement of the Directive. The Chemical Lab he visited afterward had remained more or less active, however, and the storage rooms were still stocked with a variety of substances which were primarily used in the synthesis of compounds to aid in preserving the Overseer's health.

His next stop was the Beacon Observation Room, found opposite of window in the Lab hallways. An intimate room, it overlooked the Beacon chamber, and rectangular slab before the window served as a holographic control panel when active. With Isen not being in the observation room or in the Beacon chamber itself, the Overseer departed. At great speeds, he hopped all over the Labs, in a room one second, in another the next, altering his movement patterns and returning to previously visited areas often in the event Isen returned to them.

No sooner did the Overseer appear in a lengthy chamber did Isen depart from it. Mercedony was about to give chase, but stopped. There were twelve stasis pods in this room, six on either side; an open passage in a corner led to a chamber giving way to an elevator granting access to the Beacon chamber.

He ventured to the side of one pod, placing his hand on the transparent, semi-circular retractable casing that covered the bed inside. The last time he had set foot in this room was over eight thousand years ago, yet it was as though it had been just the previous day.

But that was inaccurate, he reflected; days and nights had lost their meaning for him. There was only ever now.

_On._

"There is movement in the main lobby –"

_Off. _

To the main lobby he went, where the Tesseract Fountain stood. Isen was present, and started to run for the entrance leading to the elevator when he spotted Mister Richards. Mercedony immediately shifted directly behind him, placing a firm hand on the child's shoulder.

_Isen –_

A cry and a burst of flame came in answer, which Mercedony deflected with ease. Looking at the scorch marks on the ground, it occurred to him that Isen was in no state to listen; stronger methods would be required. For a second, he thought he might be able to employ the WOE Pattern to coerce Isen into hypnagogic submission, but given his lessened bond to the Equation, it might not work, just as he and his Witnesses were immune to its effects. And anything that could knock Isen unconscious could be dangerous, given that Isen's brain was locked in a state of perpetual awareness.

_On. Jacques, place Für Immer on lockdown. And cross-reference the data in Isen's medical file to see if there might be any disabling or containment methods offering the least risks to his physiology._

"Lockdown complete. Commencing cross-reference with established parameters."

To the Academy down the main lobby left hall, with the Virtual Training Room and the Classroom and the Recreation area and the old quarters of his Witnesses; to the Laboratories down the main lobby's right hall, with the Biology and Chemical Labs and the Medical Examination Room and the R&D department; to Mercedony's private quarters down the main lobby's central hall, his cache of collected items and keepsakes and his extensive library; no corner of Für Immer remained untouched by his examination. Isen teleported everywhere at random, but the Overseer was beginning to see patterns in his movements, and was beginning to intercept the boy more and more.

_On. Progress?_

"I have reviewed 73% of the data in Isen's file," said Jacques. "So far, I have yet to formulate a definitive solution. However, if I may offer one suggestion, the chances of retrieving the subject would increase dramatically if one were to inhibit the teleportation ability."

_If only it were so simple. Where is he now?_

"He is now... in the Empyrean Interface."

The Overseer's eyes flashed.

_Off._

At once, he shifted to the chamber in question, found on the lowest level of Für Immer. It was a large domed chamber with no entrances or exits; only those capable of spatial circumvention techniques could reach it. The room was in the process of becoming brighter from the added presence that was Isen, who was standing on the large dais in the center of the room when the Overseer appeared.

"Get away!" roared Isen in a cracking voice when he turned around to see him. "Jacques!"

"I regret that I do not possess the means to assist you in the way you desire," answered the artificial voice in English upon analyzing both Isen's voice and thoughts.

Looking down, Isen noticed that the dais was in fact a representation of the round symbol that reoccurred throughout Für Immer, but he did not stay to gaze at it for long, vanishing from sight in seconds.

His beige longcoat swaying around his legs, the Overseer stepped onto the representation of the Eye of the Universe, standing in the circle that represented Probability in the large circle of Possibility. After placing his cane in a small hole to his side, holding it upright, he mentally projected authorization codes to Jacques, thus activating the Empyrean Interface. The room dimmed, and holographic panels formed around the platform's perimeter, which he manipulated by waving his hands around, a maestro conducting a show of floating shapes and lights of yellows and oranges and reds.

As the name suggested, the Empyrean Interface was the interface that allowed direct access to the quantum supercomputer he had named the Empyrean, whose bulk was hidden behind the domed wall of the chamber. It was here that Mercedony spent most of his time, using the Empyrean's immense processing power to plot the Directive, his ongoing plan to prevent the Collision, from its broadest strokes down to its most trivial minutiae. The Interface was currently a kaleidoscope of Proxy intelligence feeds, real-time links to numerous news feeds and channels, progress reports on bot programs currently hacking sensitive information from many top-level governmental, international, and private servers and networks (as well as intercepting private and encrypted communiqués), and background mathematical and processing diagnostics and routines that computed a number of Directive-specific algorithms.

It was this comprehensive hub of information that was the key to the Overseer's ongoing operation, but he chose to collapse most of the windows to bring up surveillance footage and sensor data for Für Immer, one of many things under the regulation of Jacques' virtual intelligence. Seeing as Jacques saw, Mercedony sifted through the various sectors of the facility, observing numerous screens as well as a three-dimensional model of Für Immer's interior, where not only the facility's three major sections could be seen, but also the maintenance tunnels and shafts that wormed through and around the facility like veins, emergency exits leading to the surface that Jacques had locked down at the Overseer's request, and the veritable heart of Für Immer, the Zero-Point Energy reactor that powered the entire base with a constant source of infinitely renewable energy.

Isen's figure jumped from screen to screen, his every movement fuelled more by paranoia and fear than by logic. Not knowing how far beneath the ground they were, Isen had no reference point to judge where the surface was, and so did not know exactly how far he had to go to escape. Watching Isen teleport without a sense of clear direction and aim, Mercedony experienced some amount of pity; the boy's shock and pain was understandable, even though it was partially misguided from misinterpretation of his resurfaced memories. He was certain that Isen would calm himself with further explanation on Mercedony's part, but for that, he would have to be apprehended.

A plan was percolating in the Overseer's brain, one as innovative as it was desperate. He relayed his instructions in a tentative inner voice.

_Jacques, set the Temporal Acceleration Fields to alternate between two and six factors above real-time at two second intervals. It should disorientate and confuse Isen to the point where he will have trouble concentrating on his teleportation. _

"This is a rather radical strategy, sir. Are you certain you want to proceed? At the chosen rate, such alternation will place the field generators under great duress."

_I will repair what damage there may be after. Retrieving the child is our top priority. _

"And what about you, sir? The alternating field strengths are certain to cause you great discomfort."

_You need not worry. I will manage. On my command, commence the loop._

"As you wish."

The commands relayed, the Overseer scanned the screens to determine Isen's location. Once the child was found, he shut down the Empyrean Interface, took his cane, and stepped of the Eye of the Universe.

_Off._

He shifted to the end of the main lobby's central hall. Two staircases curved symmetrically against the round walls up to a single balcony leading to his private quarters; a passage was found beneath the balcony, leading to his personal library and storerooms of art and artefacts and other things he had collected over time.

And in the center of the rounded hub was Isen, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the suited man.

_On. Jacques, now!_

The fields snapped back and forth at slower and faster rates, forming a strong pulsation that coursed through their bodies. Isen teetered and fell to his knees, bringing his hands to his hat-covered head. Mercedony was having trouble as well, leaning more heavily on his cane. While he had braced himself beforehand and was able to consciously tailor his temporal rhythm to that of the Taffy as it changed, it was still a strain on his body and mind, instilling dizziness and difficulty of focus. In the beginning, Mercedony had thought himself to be immortal, eternal, but the truth was that his body aged extremely slowly, for even he was not exempt from entropy's grasp; it thus took great effort for his ailing body to fight against the rough temporal seas surrounding him.

_Isen! _

_Stop! Make stop!_

_I will, but you must promise me that you will not try to escape. _

He could already see in Isen's mind that the child intended to do anything but, so despite his reservations, the Overseer began to reach out to Isen, first using telekinesis to restrain him, then employing telepathy and reverse empathy to calm and soothe him. Spurts of flame danced across the boy's body as he attempted to resist, and his mind proved surprisingly stubborn, fending off the Overseer's probing. He was of an exceptional strength; it was little wonder why they had made him their Candidate.

_I regret having to do this, Isen. But if I allow you to leave, others will find you and try to use you for their own gain, and that would not bode well for either of us. _

For a second, Isen believed him, but then he remembered what Mister Richards had done to him, and so he struggled anew. What alarmed the Overseer was not the sudden burst in strength, but that Isen was trying to break into his own mind. He attempted to resist the boy's counter probes, but simply withstanding the field variations was straining enough.

_No...You must not..._

But he could not stop Isen from glimpsing what he sought: the location and dimensions of Für Immer in relation to the grass fields and castle ruins above, granting him the reference points necessary to safely teleport to the surface. Mercedony could already see the primordial impulse of escape forming in Isen's mind. Trying to keep in tune with the temporal pulsing, he took a step forward, then another, using his cane to stabilize his balance. As he did, he redoubled his psionic output, trying to tame the boy.

Only too late did he realize that the calming effect worked to his disadvantage; where Isen was once emotionally frantic, he was now just centered enough to effectively focus his abilities. The Overseer's cane slipped under his weight, and he fell on his weaker leg, cringing. Kneeling, he reached out to Isen, who was pouring all of his strength into his next jump, seeking to remove himself from the nauseating field disparities.

_This is the safest place for you now, Isen. I will tell you everything you want to know. But you _must_ remain – _

Isen's silhouette began to flicker, and the Overseer knew the battle was lost. The boy vanished, Mercedony holding out an outstretched arm in vain.

_...Disable the fields!_

"At once."

The Temporal Acceleration Fields shut down entirely, ambient space and time adopting the real-time rate of the outside world. The Overseer was wracked with coughs, kneeling on the floor, still disoriented from the field alternation. After a several moments, he managed to regain himself; a soundless grunt escaped his lips as he rose with the aid of his cane, his vocal cords inoperative from millennia of neglect.

Competing courses of action collided in his mind. He could not allow Isen to escape. What if he were to be found? His history had been a long chain of solitude and neglect and abuse, others seeking to use his power to their own ends. The Nazi regime tried it, as did the engineer of his current elevated state; even his own people had used him, in their own way.

The boy was already responsible for so much, and in the wrong hands, he could become responsible for so much more.

There was no taking him back to the home he had forgotten, either. But that only increased the risks of keeping him in his custody at Für Immer lest others somehow discover Isen's existence. Was the only valid option to keep him in a closed, dark cell, as the Nazis did in their secret labs, or as Robert Bischoff did when he tried to conceal Isen from American military interests, an act that forced him to fake his death to elude them once and for all?

The prospect didn't excite him, but he decided the time to decide what to do with the boy would come later, only after he had retrieved him, and only after Isen understood the truth of things.

_Jacques, do you have his location? Is he still here?_

Already suspecting the worst, the Overseer waited for Jacques to cross-reference all sensor information, a process that took nearly a minute.

"I detected some movement above ground some moments passed," announced the voice. "You should hurry, however. Isen has already passed beyond my sensor range, his last known heading due west."

_Off. _

To the Roads Less Travelled By he went, standing in the knee-high grasses of the fields above Für Immer. Night had recently fallen, with a crescent moon beginning to rise over the Bavarian landscape. The ruins of what had once been Schloss Hohenberg loomed on the hill behind him, a dormant stone giant glazed in moonlight whose outline seemed to meld into the night sky. A cold wind stroked the fields, but the chill did not bother the Overseer, who surveyed the expanse with gloved hands clasped on the head of his cane.

Closing his eyes, he uncollapsed his wave function, and he was no longer in one definite place. He was nowhere, but everywhere, his mind aware of all the possible points in space he _could_ be occupying along his personal wave function. He limited his perception to a mile-wide radius, then spread his awareness into each potential point of occupation. His Witnesses could perceive their own wave functions and alter where they might be, but their awareness only extended for the points they sought to travel to, and their movements were restricted to a strictly spatial axis.

The Overseer, however, was tethered much more loosely to the Equation, and so he was capable of entering a state of limited, incorporeal omnipresence, seeing through the eyes of the possible Overseers occupying any and all points in the confines set by his detached perception. In this manner, he sifted through the fields and backroads and forests and hills surrounding Für Immer, looking for any sign of Isen. Yet even in this state, he saw nothing to indicate the boy's presence. Had he already teleported beyond the mile-wide range he was searching in? Had Isen already achieved sufficient mastery in spatial teleportation despite decades – perhaps longer – of self-inflicted suppression?

A small number of possible Overseers were found near a peculiar object in the field before the castle ruins, which is where the Overseer chose to collapse his wave function, shape and form snapping into a physical body. In a portion of the field near the dirt road that the Proxies had driven up to drop Isen off several hours past, he knelt, picking up a baseball cap, one that could only belong to a certain hairless child. He held it as he rose, clenching it as he looked into the dark horizon. Why did he leave his hat behind? Did he drop it, or did it fall off when he passed here? Or did something else happen?

He would need to send out top-priority alerts to the Proxy network, as well as monitor news feeds closely for sightings of strange bald children in the general area, but he knew that this wouldn't be the first time Isen had lived alone, hiding in the shadows of human society. Mercedony hadn't known that Isen was even alive until December brought it to his attention; the chances of locating the child again were slim, even more so when factoring that others might get to him first.

_Isen_, he thought to himself, staring at the discarded baseball cap. _Where have you gone?_


	20. Chapter 19: Zero Event

Chapter 19: Zero Event

"_**Activate Event Protocol**_  
_**Location Sector Alpha-2 [42.83/-73.93/221.08] **_  
_**Time at 11:02:40 PM Local  
[Priority code 1618]"**_

It was exactly as he remembered it.

If it were to possess consciousness and the capacity for memory, September imagined that Reiden Lake would have remembered him as well, seeing that he too has not changed in twenty-four years. The Witness would never change, Reiden would never change, and, it seemed, neither would their intertwined destinies, fated to meet time and time again for all eternity.

It was night, just as it had been once before. The lake wasn't frozen over, however; this time, its surface was naked to the stars, ripples of white fluttering in a wide, black pit fenced by pines and oaks and firs. He was on the opposite shore, too, as was August, observing Jones and his skeleton crew assemble their Casimir Window projector on one end of Reiden Lake instead of watching Walter and the Boy falling through the ice on the other.

August had been the one who made him realize how to correct his mistake. September sought both him and December in Sector-1 shortly after the interference in the Lab.

"You will have an opportunity to fix this," August had said.

They saw what September could not, his perception clouded by confusion and anxiety. Only at the last possible moment did September realize what August meant.

The Boy had to live.

And so he saved him.

When he arrived at Reiden, shifting to the lake's shore that night, Walter had not yet returned. Only his Casimir Window equipment was present, minuscule from where the Witness stood. The ice was already weakened from absorbing the excess energy caused by the portal, but that was not what had caught his attention; it was the gaping wound in the Veil at that precise point in space, still widening in all directions, torn apart by Doctor Bishop's device. Because Walter went from Sector-2 to Sector-1, it was the latter that bore the brunt of the impact. In this world, the effects have been much less pronounced, but the crossover had marked Sector-1 far more profoundly; the Zero Event, they could come to call this incident, with its center at Reiden Lake termed Point Zero.

Walter's re-opening of the portal to return to his native reality poured salt into this cosmic wound. Their entrance was a sudden one to his Witness eyes; his temporal perception was a local ability, and so he only perceived them the moment they entered into the space-time of Sector-2. But when they did, he could already perceive them falling through the weakened ice.

He remembered holding out his hand as humans and equipment alike were swallowed whole into the lake, ice cracking in a rip of thunder.

Instantly, he shifted to the edge of the hole, staring into the liquid black abyss. He knew he had to save them, but a single thought held him back.

What if he failed to save them? What if he were to commit another mistake?

There was no time for worry. Humans were affected by cold, and were known to die from prolonged exposure. Add the possibility of drowning, and there was much cause for concern.

One breath, two, and he dove headlong into the tepid waters of the frozen lake.

He swam, fixed on the hazy figure sinking gracefully. September had taken him in his arms, then shifted to the shoreline, after which he made a second trip for the Boy. Father and son were lying side by side, having lost the battle to unconsciousness, dangling on the precipice of pneumonia, their lungs filled with water. Acting quickly, he placed them on their side and stimulated their coughing reflexes with a jolt from his fingers placed on their sternum, emptying their lungs. Then he kept a constant current of energy through both of them with his hands, elevating there body temperatures.

It was shortly after eliminating the threat of imminent death that the Overseer contacted him. He had been so busy analyzing the potential outcomes of September's mistake that he had only then sent September the assignment to save the Boy. Mercedony's surprise at September's initiative had been greatly muted by the stress of dealing with September's mistake, as well as his disappointment in September himself, but it was still there in the electronic chorus he used as a spoken voice. The Overseer gave further instructions on what was to be done with Doctor Bishop and the Boy, among them the imperative to implant the subconscious instructions for what to do with the Beacon in the event it ever fell into Walter's hands, one among many future contingency plans September would go on to deliver to Walter in years to come, countermeasures to keep the Directive on its correct course.

The Zero Event. It was an apt name, for all things begin at zero, and it is from zero from whence all things spring. September had been the catalyst that allowed zero to become more than it was, his one moment of inattentiveness creating the probability set that made the Silent War possible, and causing the advancing decay and imbalance of worlds.

But not all was lost. The Boy was saved, and Doctor Bishop fixed him. That was good, wasn't it?

Concealed in the woods, September looked to his colleague. Would he have realized the proper course of action in time had August not enlightened him? September could not say. And there was no way to go back and try again, for the RLTB was spatially restricted for Witnesses, forcing them to drift ever forward in the currents of entropy. But August did help him; like September's mistake, that would always remain.

It occurred to him that he had yet to relay to August his gratitude. It would be best if he were to know.

"August?"

Addressed, the Witness lowered his specs. "Yes?"

"I wish to convey my gratitude to you for assisting me."

August's head shifted back a little. "Assistance? Are you finding this Event too difficult for you to handle?"

"That is not what I meant. In the year 1985, when I approached you and December to discuss my...my mistake, you said that I would have an opportunity to correct things. I now realize that if you had not said that, I might not have realized the correct course of action. Thank you, August."

"Your gratitude is accepted," said August, after a moment's considerations.

He returned to observing the scene.

Three minutes later, September spoke again.

"...August?"

"Yes?" he said, peering through his specs.

"Are we friends?"

Perplexed, August collapsed his binoculars, then tilted his head. "I... I do not know. Why do you ask?"

"I am curious." It was true; since his encounter with Doctor Bishop, he had wondered how many other friends he might currently possess. "I have observed that a requirement of friendship is time spent in interaction. We have spent a significant amount of time in one another's presence over our existences."

"Approximately four percent of our existences have unfolded in mutual vicinity, if my calculations our correct," said August after a reflective pause. "Now I am curious also. Do you think we have satisfied the interaction requirement for friendship?"

"There seems to be no precise method of calculating if we have," said September.

"We are already colleagues," noted August. "Partners. If we isolate the element that separates partnership from friendship, perhaps we will determine if we are indeed friends."

They analyzed the problem, breaking it down into its constituents, observing it from all angles.

"Could it be probabilistic?" asked August. "Perhaps one simply enters a friendship through chance. We might be able to devise an equation to determine the likelihood of a friendship occurring."

"By that metric, a friendship may have already formed any point in time before this moment," raised September. "Such an equation would not be suitable for determining our present state. The variable must be something else. Could it instead be... support?"

"What do you mean?"

"In humans, relational bonds appear to have reciprocal support as one of their factors. We have assisted one another over the years, have we not?"

"We assist each other as part of our duty. This may not be a product of friendship, but of our status as colleagues. Besides, what applies to humans does not necessarily apply to us. Perhaps it is impossible for Witnesses to know friendship."

September cocked his head back slightly. Impossible to be friends? If that was so, how was it that he was experiencing friendship with Walter? No, the variable had to be something else. But what?

"...The answer is choice."

August turned to September at the sound of his voice.

"Choice?" asked August.

"Yes," said September. "I suspect the solution lies in choice. One becomes friends... because they choose to."

"Of course," marvelled August. "It is so simple."

September pivoted to face his fellow Witness, who did the same.

"August," said September. "Will you be my friend?"

August seemed skeptical. "I am not certain. How will this benefit either of us? What does it change whether we are friends or not?"

It was an excellent point. What would be the purpose in pursuing this accord? What would be its _significance_? Yet September knew it was significant, having experienced it himself. How could he make August see as he did?

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like," he tried, "to share a bond with an individual that was more significant than any other?"

There was a change in August's face, then, a subtle widening of eyes, and September had no inkling as to what it might mean. But where August had been reluctant, he was now enthused about the idea.

"I will be your friend, September," he declared. "Will you be my friend?"

"Yes."

"Good."

A cold wind blew, muffling the sound of Jones yelling at his men in the distance, urging them to hurry. Again, September felt the balance between them shift in the same way it did for Walter, but he had the sense that something was missing.

"Should we make our friendship official with a gesture of some sort?" asked September.

"What if we shook hands?" suggested August.

"Agreed. Let us shake hands to commemorate the formation of our new friendship."

They stretched out their arms, palms open, but at the last moment, August pulled out.

"Wait... What if the strength of our bond necessitates a more significant gesture?"

"If that is the case, how would we determine the appropriate action?"

Once more, they found themselves ruminating for solutions to their problem. Friendship was proving to be more complicated than either had initially realized.

"Should we...kiss?" asked August tentatively.

September looked at him, puzzled. "A kiss?"

"I... have noticed that humans who share close bonds tend to do this," explained August. "I suspect the act is an affirmation of their bond."

"If we were to kiss, would we then have to mate? It seems the act of kissing also serves as a precursor to sexual relations."

"I do not know. Is it even possible for Witnesses to mate?"

They contemplated the question in silence, respectively trying to picture the mechanics of Witness intercourse.

"I do not believe mating is the solution," decided September at last. "It would furthermore be impractical, as we are presently observing a Major Event. Also, I doubt the forest floor would provide much comfort."

"Yes," conceded August. "You are right." The Witness flexed his brow ridges in thought. "We have known each other for a long time. This alone would merit a gesture of moderate importance, yes? With this in mind, I propose that we join in a hug."

"Very well."

Figuring things out as they went along, the two successfully merged on their third try, where they wrapped their arms around each other. When August began to pat September's back with unnecessarily wide arcs, September did the same, and the pair spent a good ten seconds swatting at the other's back, neither quite knowing when they were supposed to stop. But stop they eventually did, assuming their original positions.

"So we are now friends?" asked August.

"I believe so."

After taking a moment to reflect on the significance of what had just occurred, August resumed watching Jones through his binoculars as though nothing had happened.

Walter Bishop and August. September had now confirmed that he possessed two friends. What of the other Witnesses? Would they consider him a friend? Would the Overseer?

He began to wonder who else might potentially fit into this new classification system. Horace Bradford, Jacques the Virtual Intelligence, Olivia Dunham; if the Omega Protocol were not in effect, maybe even the Boy could be his friend. What if he befriended _himself_? Such strange territory he had stepped foot in, yet he was eager to venture inside and work its properties.

"It is beginning," August informed him.

September took out his own specs, gaining a clearer view of the scene through a night vision filter. The temporal precursors slithering into view signalled the impending storming of the scene at the hands of the FBI squad. He had trouble locating Walter in the ethereal mass. Was he even present? Did he manage to find the sealing device?

That was to be their contingency place in case Jones could not be stopped before fully opening the portal. The process had already begun, however, the first hints of membrane stretching appearing as midair wavy disturbances; Fringe Division would need to act fast.

"August, keep watch," he said to his companion. "I will verify Doctor Bishop's attendance to this Event."

"Of course."

Unobserved, September disappeared.

The primary contingent of agents moved to the border of Jones' encampment at the shore, were his van had been parked and his equipment set up. With silent gestures, Agent Charlie Francis directed one of his own out the way to flank the scene. One of Jones' men popped out from behind the van and fired the first shot, and the FBI agent fell to the ground.

As this went down, September was further away, standing amidst the trees on the side of the path where Walter's vehicle was parked, and around which Walter, Peter, and one agent left behind to watch them were gathered around.

"Doctor Bishop, stay down!" said the agent at the sound of gunshots. Then he equipped his pistol. "Stay here."

He raced ahead to assist his comrades in the continuing firefight, leaving the Bishops to themselves. September saw Walter grip an object in his hand tightly, a remote with a circular dial on the top, and he knew that the device had been found.

Seeing Olivia's form duck out of the trees and disappear down the crest of the hill, Walter pressed onward, clutching the sealing device. The Boy grabbed the man's arm, obstructing his father.

"Walter! Hey, Walter!" He gripped Walter's shoulders, turning him around. "You can't go over there."

"They'll need this," said Doctor Bishop, handling the device, gunshots continuing to resound. "To close the portal to prevent him from going over."

"Give it to me, I'll do it," said Peter. When Walter hesitated, Peter insisted. "Give it to me!"

"Okay!"

Walter handed it to his son. September tilted his head while this took place. The Boy would wield it? Whoever did, hopefully they would not need to use it.

"It's so simple, a child could do it," said Walter. "You just twist the dial...there we go...then you flick this switch...Now, when you see the portal, aim this end directly toward it and press the button, like so." He mimed it for Peter's benefit.

"Right. Got it!"

"And remember to get in as close as you can," warned Walter, holding his son to prevent him from leaving. "Otherwise, it might not work."

"I got it, Walter," assured Peter.

Still holding onto his son, Walter nodded. "Be careful, Peter."

His hands still grasped after Peter as he left; on some subconscious level, Walter did not like the idea of allowing Peter near Reiden Lake.

Walter stood alone beside his car, a car September once drove, fretting over the safety of his son. A nearby creaking made Doctor Bishop snap his head to the left, where he saw Mister Watcher standing between the trees. He grew solemn at the presence in the woods and gave September a single nod.

_I remembered,_ his expression said._ I did what you asked of me. _

September returned the nod before backing behind a tree, returning to August's side through the RLTB.

When he returned, Olivia was already holding her weapon at Jones and his accomplice, who paid no mind to her, focused instead on the task at hand.

"Don't move!" she commanded.

"Manifold... is stable," announced the technician, doing a poor job of maintaining his cool.

The portal projector, which was in fact based on Walter's Casimir Gateway technology, was boring a hole in the Veil within the rectangular projection field. Like a scanner, a band of narrowly-focused sonic waves moved back and forth at extreme speeds between the borders of the field, pushing the Veil to the sides minutely faster than it could reform; Bell's Zero-Point cell bestowed the projector with enough energy to surpass the colossal strength of an inter-world barrier. It was going to rip apart soon if Olivia did not stop him, and September could foresee the unlikelihood of that happening for reasons she was about to experience herself.

"Don't move!" repeated Olivia.

When she saw that the technician had no intention to comply, she shot him in the shoulder, causing him to collapse. But it was no use; the Veil could no longer resist, and a stable gateway snapped into being. Immediately, the Witnesses hidden in the woods nearby cringed, Jones' actions a forceful finger into the Veil's wound. They could perceive the ripples expanding along the Veil's fabric, passing them by. The damage was comparably minor to Walter's original breach, which had already rendered the space at Reiden fragile; however, each of Jones' recent breaches would only add to the rate of decay, and the damage would increase with every moment the gateway remained open.

The Boy would need to arrive, and soon.

Jones began to walk to the monochrome canvas of a storming Reiden within the portal's border, the foot of the mountains glob of Quarantine Amber imprisoning the Zero Event fissure creeping into the view from the left.

Olivia steadied her pistol.

"Stop! Don't move!"

Jones halted. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, not even bothering to turn around. "You'll understand if this reunion is brief."

"If you take one more step, I'll _shoot_!"

"Goodbye, Agent Dunham," said Jones dismissively.

He resumed his march in defiance of her warning.

"Jones!"

She fired, the bullet spiralling through his chest. He stumbled to a knee, his glasses falling to the side, but to her astonishment, he rose once more. The next round didn't seem to faze him at all. Now worthy of his attention, he pivoted to face her, staring with a brown left eye and a milky right.

"The teleporter," he rasped. "It may be killing me, but in the meantime, it's made me something rather special. You see, your bullets just go _right through _me. And soon, Doctor Bell will see just _how_ special I am."

"Stop!"

With that, David Robert Jones made for the portal to another world, Olivia powerless to stop him. Jones appeared strange to September's eyes; the molecular reassembly and subsequent decay was doing peculiar things to his spatio-temporal makeup.

"He must not be allowed to cross over," said August. "If the Boy does not show up soon, we might be forced to intervene –"

"Dunham!"

Peter Bishop rushed over the wooded hill, descending onto the shore, armed with the sealing device. Seeing Olivia chase after Jones after contouring the van, he readied the device and pressed the button. A sonic pulse escaped the device, and an engulfing light emanated from the portal, causing Olivia and Peter both to shield their eyes. Jones turned around to see what was going on behind him, but it was too late. A fraction of a second was all it took, the screeching slice filling the air lasting just as long.

When the light faded, they peered to where the portal had once stood but only Jones stood there now. It became apparent in an instant that a part of him did in fact manage to reach the other side; turning, Jones showed them exactly what parts these were. Of his head, everything left of his left eye remained and his upper left torso was missing as well, arm included. It was as though the portal had taken a monstrous bite out of the upper left quadrant of his body. When Jones slowly fell to his knees, the enormous wound was still steaming, insides charred black from being cauterized by the portal's severance.

Panting, Olivia watched Jones fall onto his back, eyes vacant, gloved fingers somehow still twitching after hitting the dirt. Peter came to her side.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said in a single exhalation.

Doctor Bishop appeared then, approaching cautiously.

"Oh my," were his words at the sight of Jones' body.

"Your gizmo worked, Walter," said Peter, waving it.

"So I see."

The Boy paid no mind to Walter as he scanned the woods behind them, wondering if a certain someone was still watching.

Agent Francis appeared on scene, as did the remaining agents, who gathered around Jones' steaming, barbecued corpse.

"I don't know what's more disturbing," said Charlie, face contorted in revulsion. "This guy's body, or the fact that my mouth is watering a little."

Fringe Division began to examine the bodies of fallen federal agents and terrorist cronies alike while Agents Dunham and Francis placed calls requesting additional support. Of those shot, only the technician was still alive, having only suffered a shoulder wound; he was brought into FBI custody, ferried to the SUVs parked some distance away. Others examined the equipment and the van, while others still gathered to converse on the sidelines.

None noticed the two figures that had stood next to Jones' body for scarcely half a second.

But the Witnesses experienced standing there for subjectively far longer. It had been August who shifted over first, interested in observing the body with a closer eye. September followed shortly after, and in that half-second that was also forty full ones, they analyzed Jones' body. In this slowed time, Jones' brain was weakly fizzing with the final electric sparks before absolute death, allowing September to trace the fading chain of thought that had been his last. The teleportation side-effects had started to affect his cognition, hence his growing obsession with his past status as the understudy to William Bell, in the end wanting nothing more than to reconnect with his former mentor, to go back to the way things were.

There was something else, though, a singular thought at the end of the synaptic chain, the very last cogent thought before his partially severed brain lost ceased conscious awareness forever.

_... Christmas lights...how delightful..._

Three flashes of green and a fourth of red, cycling in a continuous pattern. Such had been the image imprinted upon Jones' dying mind.

It was no surprise that Jones saw the WOE Pattern, what with his brain existing in that non-space between worlds for the briefest instant. Like the Veil, the three-dimensional invisible manifold that spanned the entirety the two sets of space-time that comprised both worlds, the WOE Pattern encompassed all things. September noticed the colours everywhere, as did all Witnesses. The colours were somehow connected to the Equation, they knew, as well as consciousness; it was the factor behind why the sight of it induced a hypnagogic state in humans.

It had no such effect on Witnesses, however, and September thus agreed with Jones that the lights were a delightful sight indeed.

The pair reconvened out of human sight, returning to their original observation point. With the Event having terminated successfully, they were now free to go. August was preparing to leave, but turned to relay a message to his partner.

"We should pursue an activity together, September," he said. "Since we are now friends, it seems the appropriate thing to do."

"Yes," acquiesced September. "What activity do you suggest?"

"There is a televised program called _American Idol_ involving humans competing through the act of singing. I find it to be fascinating. Perhaps we might watch it at a later time, when our schedules are free."

"Very well. Contact me with your MultiCell before the next airing."

"Understood."

August slipped behind a tree, and he was gone.

September lingered long after his new friend had departed, and some time after Fringe Division had left the scene. Alone, the Witness walked to the banks where Jones had stood, taking in the view. When his wordless contemplation concluded, he took his leave, wondering how long it would be before Reiden Lake called him back once more.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: In the actual 1.20 episode, there was no Quarantine Amber visible in Jones' portal to the Red World. _

_This is because - as S2 DVD commentary reveals - the version of the Red World seen in 1.19/1.20 was Akiva Goldsman's vision for the Red World, which the showrunners (Pinkner and Wyman) decided to take into another direction aesthetically in S2 onward. This technically constitutes as a retcon, but whatevs. _

_Given that Reiden Lake would be the epicenter of decay in the Red World, it would make sense, given the aesthetic of the post-2.21 Red World that Reiden Lake would be encased in Amber, so as to contain the fissure of Walter's original crossover. Hence why we see part of the great mound of Amber within Jone's portal in this chapter of PTS. ;)_


	21. Chapter 20: The Sound of God

Chapter 20: The Sound of God

Romulus and Remus swivelled within their respective starting pens, mapping their surroundings.

The obstacle course, which was arranged over multiple tables borrowed from the cafeteria, comprised of several cubicles with white walls one and a half inches in height, as well as smaller circular prize rooms; the whole was linked together by plastic tubes, and each of these compartments held a trial aiming to evaluate the subjects in different ways. The course itself consisted of two identical solo legs to be completed by either of the mice, after which the two paths converged for a teamwork segment.

It was in the gap between the solo courses at the center of the horseshoe table arrangement that Doctor Bishop was standing, as it was the optimal position to film both subjects as they would go along. Overseeing Romulus was Kenneth, who would time him using his chronometer, and Bruce, who would, in addition to note-taking, watch over the actual course and make sure things ran smoothly; Alice and Simon were on Remus' side, keeping time and taking notes, respectively. As for Carla, she was in the middle with Walter, also ready to make general observations of both mice on her notepad, fulfilling her primary function as general note-taker in the experiments they ran in the Kresge Building Lab.

Everything was in place. Walter began the recording, a red light activating on his camcorder.

"Hello, everyone," he said. "It is May 21st, 1979. My name is Doctor Walter Bishop, professor of biochemistry and physics at Harvard University. My team and I will now record the first experiment in the second phase of the Bio-Frequency Trials, which aims to augment the powers of the mind in living organisms. Today, we will be testing the cognitive capabilities of Test Subjects Seven and Eight, dubbed 'Romulus' and 'Remus', respectively. On my mark, we will begin with the first challenge."

With his free hand, Walter lifted a finger in the air, looking through the viewfinder of the camcorder. A few seconds elapsed, and he flicked his wrist, pointing forward.

"Begin!"

At Walter's command, Kenneth and Alice activated the chronometers while Bruce and Simon unlocked the panels. A green light flickered over the exit, accompanied by a ding. Drawn to the change, the mice presented themselves to the doors. Now unlocked, the panels could swivel on their central Y axis, and both mice squeezed through the panels and crossed the short length of tubing to emerge in the first testing area.

Within was a single red button in the back left corner. To unhinge the exit panel and reach the piece of cheese waiting in the prize room beyond, they would need only to step onto the button.

"This first test is simply to let the subjects become familiar with the system," narrated Doctor Bishop, holding the camcorder steady. "Successfully complete the task and you will receive a reward."

As before, the mice shot straight for the exit, expecting it to open momentarily. Yet after several moments, with the panel refusing to unlock from either time or direct application of weight, they broke away, seeming to wonder if there might be another way of getting through. With the only element worth noting being the round red button in the back corner, the mice went to investigate, sniffing at it, whiskers atwitch.

Romulus had been the first to unlock the exit, stepping onto the button, which made the light over the tube flash green with another ring. Aligning his head to the source of the disturbance, Romulus darted to the now-open panel, not even hesitating to go through, already associating the green light as a sign for safe passage. As for Remus, he had lost a few seconds from perking up at the sound of the nearby chime from his brother's side of the course, though he too solved the puzzle and went to the exit.

The timers were stopped the moment either mice went through the panel, and they mice nibbled on their cheesy rewards in the inter-compartmental prize rooms. Ordinary mice would never have been so focused for such a task, or so quick; the results of this first test were promising.

The first test was admittedly a simple one, however. The true test would begin momentarily.

The cheese ingested, the twins looked to their respective exits, which also had a light, waiting for the go-ahead. Once Bruce and Simon unlocked them, the chronometers began their timing from zero, and the mice went into the tube and through the one-way entry flaps into the next area, the flaps closing behind them.

In this slightly larger cubicle, three lights were affixed over the exit leading to the cheese. Two buttons were place next to the inner wall of the course, and a third next to the outer one, lights also place over each. To claim their reward, the mice would need to do nothing more than press the buttons in the correct order.

"Now, we test their capacity for memorization," said Director Bishop. "There are six possible combinations for the buttons, and only one correct sequence. To solve the puzzle, they will need to remember which combinations have previously failed, lest they repeat the same mistakes again and again."

Kenneth observed Romulus closely. The scenario was familiar to the mouse, though curiously enough, there were two more buttons this time around. After a moment's consideration, he decided to go for the nearest one. Upon pressing it, the first light over the exit turned red, as did the one over the button. Noting the absence of the ding of triumph, Romulus tried again; when he did, the light above both the button and the door switched off.

Such was the rule of the second test chamber. The correct combination consisted of one of each button, and no one button could be pressed more than once. Romulus pressed the button a third time, seeming to confirm the light-button correlation, and by now knowing that lights were good, he left the active button alone. In swift succession, he activated the second and third buttons – clearly demonstrating that he retained the rule that forbade pressing the same button twice – and immediately presented himself at the gate, waiting for the ding. What he got instead was a buzz and three flashes from the red lights, which then flickered off, the incorrect combination resetting the buttons.

The combination for Romulus' room was 3-1-2, whereas that of Remus was 1-3-2. It was a game of trial-and-error, hence why it had been chosen; the very idea that a mouse could be able of formulating a trial-and-error strategy on the spot without any prior training was inconceivable.

Then again, these were no ordinary mice.

Romulus repeated his previous sequence in the same order, with the implication being that he was confirming that this was indeed the incorrect combination, and not the product of a fluke. The buzzer resounded once more, prompting him to immediately try a new sequence. Buzzing also came from Remus' failed attempts in his own cubicle, but Romulus had stopped paying attention to his brother's activities, apparently realizing that while something similar was going on close by, it had nothing to do with the task at hand.

Knowing that this was a hyper-intelligent rodent did not lessen the astonishment of seeing Romulus cycle through possible codes, never repeating himself once. What was most surprising was the no-nonsense manner in which he operated, going through the puzzle with an eerily singular focus, whizzing from button to button as though an automaton. This time Remus reached the objective first, succeeding on his third try, Romulus on his fourth.

The mice claimed their prize in the next room, wolfing the nuggets down as though they had not had a meal in a long time.

"Geez, that was fast," said Alice, eyes locked on her chronometer. "Thirty-two seconds."

Kenneth's watch displayed thirty-seven, which was also blazing fast; in the cartoon world that was, he pictured the chronometer comically burning the hand of his animated self.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Walter, filming Remus. "They are performing better than I had hoped."

Indeed they were, which made the team that much more eager to see how they would respond to the more difficult challenges ahead.

_Alright, Rom. Show us what you got._

After Carla had finished compiling the results, the mice were let into the third chamber. The clocks started their counts as Walter explained what was being depicted for the tape.

"This challenge seeks to evaluate problem-solving and mechanical knowledge. In order to proceed, they will need to roll five small spheres to the slots around the door. Each sphere can be obtained only after completing a specific challenge."

The third chamber's layout was structured as a cross. Two wings branched off left and right from the central area, again splitting perpendicularly to lead to the challenges. At the end of the chamber was a rounded wall, with five round slots in the ground, where the balls had to be rolled to activate the weight sensor. And in the middle of the room was a single pink rubber ball placed on a small dais.

Seeing as that was the immediate object of interest, Romulus sped for it, sniffing at it from different angles. He propped himself up against it, dislodging the ball from the platform and causing to roll off a bit down the right corridor. The mouse stayed a moment at the platform, seeing if it did anything else. When he determined that it had no function, he proceeded to the exit.

Five circular indentations were set into the floor before the exit panel; two longing either side of the curved wall extending from the exit panel, and another in the center of the space. Romulus edged to the center hole to investigate, and jumped back when, upon stepping into it, he activated one of the five lights, which flashed green for the moment the mouse had pressed the weight switch. The mouse stood, calculating; it would be impossible for him to press down all five switches at once. Something else would have to weight them down.

It was then that the solution became obvious. He darted back to the pink ball and nudged it towards the holes; it fell into the one just to the exit's right, permanently activating one of the five green lights. The hunt was now on for more balls to weigh the switches.

Romulus went down the right corridor, facing the challenge in the upper right quadrant. The ball was perched on platform beyond the rodent's reach, being held up by a thin rope. However, there were four ropes attached to small pins on the ground, and each led to further pins all over the floor, walls, and beams placed overhead, creating a web designed to obfuscate which of the four ropes was connected to the platform. Trial and error would of course work, but the point was to see whether these mice could map out the relationship between the ropes and sever the correct one on their first try.

Romulus sat on his haunches, head moving about as it tried to untangle the web of ropes. He did so for several seconds, then without warning, took to the second one from the left. With his incisors, he gnawed at the rope, wearing down its fibres until it snapped. The platform smacked limp against the wall as the rope failed, causing the ball to fall below. Romulus then went in and positioned himself behind the ball to push it out, directing it to one of the four remaining slots before the door, activating the second of five lights.

Kenneth continued to wield his chronometer as Romulus sped to his next obstacle, in the lower right quadrant. The wall was divided in two parts; the left side housed a rubber ball, resting on an incline set into the wall, held back only by a transparent pane. To the right were five lights affixed without any meaningful order. Each was a different colour, and they flickered one after the other in the same repeating pattern. On the ground below were five coloured pads, each colour corresponding to one of the lights. Pressing one pad gave Romulus an electronic dong; another gave a higher note, and another, a lower one.

It soon became clear to the rodent that the pads needed to be pressed in the order depicted by the looping light flashes. And so he did, pressing one at a time, playing a neat little jingle. It was Bruce who had suggested using the five-note jingle from Close Encounters from the Third Kind, and the sequence caused the panel to become unlocked, flipping downward and forming a ramp to allow the ball to roll straight out. The ball now accessible, Romulus did not hesitate to ferry it to the exit slots.

Romulus worked flawlessly for the remaining two remaining obstacles in the left wing. The fourth ball was a stamina test, where he would have to step into a wheel, running and running and running until the vertical stack of lights were all lit up, at which point the ball was released. And the final ball was a test of reflexes. There were four lights on the wall, and a larger fifth one beneath the row; this larger one alternated between green and red in a randomly-generated sequence at one second intervals. Whenever the light flashed green, the rodent would have to press the single button on the floor. Each time the button was pressed when the light was green, one of the four smaller lights above would flash yellow; every time the button was pressed when the large light blinked red, the progression of yellow lights would reset to an inactive state. The goal was to get four green tries in a row.

The fifth challenge was a more difficult one. Romulus quickly determined the green lights to be the ones to aim for, but it took a few tries to get the hang of the timing. Kenneth suppressed a smirk when he saw Romulus fail with a sequence of three greens in a row, followed by a red. Romulus was nothing if not a quick learner, however, and like all the obstacles thrown his way, he soon succeeded and escorted the rubber ball to its slot.

All five balls in place, the exit panel was unlocked with a chime, and Romulus went inside, traversing the short length of tube to enter the prize room, prompting Kenneth halted the chronometer. The group compiled the results for both subjects as they gorged on their cheese. By that point, they had demonstrated that the mice's capacities far surpassed the limits of their kind, but there were still a few challenges ahead for the mice to try their paws at.

Once more, the chronometers were reset, the players poised to go. The mice were let through to the next area, which happened to be a traditional maze, fairly large, with the exit at the other end. Navigating the maze was far more laborious for Romulus; the only method available was trial and error, and so he moved tentatively, backtracking often when he reached a dead end. By the time he reached the exit and entered the prize room, his total time was about three minutes.

That was not the real challenge, however.

While the mice were snacking, they lifted the maze – which was actually resting in a slightly larger square box – and turned it 90 degrees before re-inserting it. The prize room led around the outer corner of the maze to connect to its side face, and now that the maze had been pivoted, the exact same layout awaited the mice. Would they remember the correct path? Would they realize they were in the same maze? That was the question on the team's mind as the mice crawled down the connective tubes to start the maze anew.

The timers were set, and they were let in. Kenneth kept his eye on Romulus, who froze, having not expected another maze. For the first two or three seconds, the rodent went forward with the same caution he did before. However, he must have noticed the identical layout, as he took a succession of turns with unwavering confidence before darted to the finish line.

Kenneth was amazed when the white blur that was Romulus somehow reached the prize room in two seconds flat.

"Uh... Did you see that, Ken?"

Bruce's voice made Kenneth snap out of his stupor, and he promptly stopped the timer, which had continued to elapse.

"What the hell?" said Simon, seeming to confirm that Remus had done something similar. "Tell me you got that on tape, Doctor Bishop."

"I think I did," said Walter. He had taken his eye from the viewfinder, eyeing Remus with squinting eyes.

"What do you think happened?" Carla asked Walter.

"Hmm...I'm not sure, yet. I have a few theories, but I want to see them in a cooperative setting before I say any more."

Kenneth also had a number of ideas that could explain this otherwise impossible behaviour, though nothing coherent. Like Walter, he hoped that by seeing them interact with each other, it might provide more insight into just how the Golden Frequency had affected the mice.

And perhaps, how Kenneth might be connected to the frequency.

At that point, it was less a sense of excitement that drove the team, but one of intense captivation. Each member wasn't even paying full attention to their human colleagues anymore, only interacting as much as necessary to keep the show rolling, speaking in hushed tones when they did, their attention almost fully invested in the mice.

The two solo legs of the course finally converged in a single, final test area. The assistants were silent as Walter narrated.

"This final test will seek to examine the ability for teamwork and cooperation between the two subjects. In order to gain access to the reward, the subjects must work in tandem to activate the switches in succession."

The idea in itself was fairly simple. The test area, sitting on the end of the horseshoe of tables where the solo course converged, was a large ring. The exit panel was found at the beginning, but was locked; the right-hand corridor, however, could be opened with a nearby switch. From there, the twins would have to navigate their way counter-clockwise around the ring to reach the button that would unlock the exit panel.

To do this, one mouse would press a switch to unlock the way for the other mouse, who would have to press another switch for his partner, and so on in a back-and-forth fashion. Each switch became more complicated to reach, and the final switch was timed, so when one of the mice opened the way, one would have to race through a strenuous run while the other raced to another to hold the door at the end of the run open.

And beyond the exit panel, in the center of the ring, was found the prize chamber, a veritable hoard of cheesy nuggets, compensation for all their troubles. A simple task, by all means.

The way in which they went about to complete it, however, was highly unorthodox.

The twin mice entered the room and immediately met up, standing muzzle to muzzle in silent communication. Remus darted ahead, as did Romulus, coming to inspect the locked exit panel. A single thin wire ran from the final switch in the inaccessible left side of the course to the panel, relaying the electric signal from the switch to the locking mechanism; the light overhead was currently unlit.

Remus was about to head to the first switch, as was the established norm in the experiment they found themselves in, but he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around, seeing Romulus simply standing at the exit, and Remus approached, at which point they entered another short bout of standing and staring. Were they actually communicating on some level? Despite himself, Kenneth began transposing improvised dialogue in high-pitched voices for the two mice within his mind for his own amusement.

Romulus nudged his head to the wire, and Remus took a few steps forward, sniffing at it, then looked to his brother. He then took a few steps back, and Romulus propped himself on the wall where the wire began running up it.

At the exit panel, there was a bright flash.

The team recoiled, blinking to wipe away the momentary blindness; when their vision refocused, the mice had already entered the prize room, the light over the exit lighted green.

"Okay, I'm not even going to _try_ to explain that," said Simon.

"What was that?" asked Alice. "Some sort of electric discharge?"

"Something wrong with the circuitry?" wondered Bruce, coming closer to check the wiring.

"Hold on," replied Carla. "Their vibrational state was heightened, right? Maybe they transferred some of that extra energy into the wire to override the locking mechanism."

"My thoughts exactly, Miss Warren," said Walter, who had contoured the tables to get a better view of the mice with the camcorder. "Truly remarkable. I look forward to rewatching the footage."

They all were, of course. Kenneth watched the twins eat their share of the spoils, then exchanged a glance with Simon. Nothing of value had been dispensed on the green-red sequence during the experiment, so perhaps reviewing the Betamax tape would give him better luck.

"Um...Where did the mice go?"

It was Alice who spoke. Immediately, all eyes were on the prize that had been housing two lab mice but moments ago. Walter, who had been fiddling on the camcorder's buttons, immediately took a shot of the prize room to confirm it to himself.

"What is this?" said Doctor Bishop, incredulous. "The walls were made so that they couldn't climb out. Did anyone take the mice?"

"No," said Alice, perplexed. "I was watching them, then I looked away for a second. When I looked back, they weren't there anymore."

"Same for me," said Simon.

The others nodded, confirming that the mice had disappeared when no one was looking. The lab fell silent for several seconds, which only seemed to agitate Walter even more. He shut off the camera and went to place it on a table some distance away, where he turned to face his assistants.

"Well, what are you all standing around for?" he exclaimed in exasperation. "Find them!"


	22. Chapter 21: Batter Up

Chapter 21: Batter Up

A shuffling homeless man and guy with hard, suspicious eyes made their way to the Lower East Side.

"They like to hang out in the basement of some metal workshop place," explained the former. "If they ain't there, though, then I'm afraid we'll be out of luck."

Roger proceeded to cough, capping the short fit with a sniffle. If the man was sick, Dan couldn't blame him; his was a lifestyle that gave him no rest from exposure to the elements. There had been times when Dan wondered what it would be like to be homeless, to lose all that he had. Not that he had all that much to begin with, mind. But then again, he had a roof over his head and money enough for a basic standard of living and room for periodic indulgences; Old Roger had nothing but his rickety shopping cart. Watching the slouched vagabond's swaying, eyes affixed to the ground rather than to those passing by him, Dan wondered how someone like Old Roger – or anyone, really – could end up in such a situation.

"Why didn't you tell me that there was a Liberation Front here in New York?" asked Crow.

"How was I supposed to know you weren't a part of 'em?" replied the vagabond. "Didn't think any more of it than that when you said you were with 'em Front fellas. So there's a group up in Boston too, now, eh? Nice to see things catching on."

"As the co-founder of the Front, I agree."

Old Roger's grey eyebrows popped. "Co-founder? Well, I suppose this would make the fellas here in Manhattan a bunch of copycats, if you say you didn't know 'bout 'em. Explains why you're looking for 'em so bad. I would too, if I heard there was another Old Roger running around and trading stuff."

He chuckled, no doubt at the absurdity of the image, but Dan did not partake, his mind elsewhere. Like many of the things Gottfried had shared with him, he was left conflicted with what to think. On one hand, he was pleased. How amazing was it that another branch of the Liberation Front spontaneously popped into existence in another city? Had their cause tapped into the zeitgeist, stirring people from their manufactured complacency and inspiring them to action? There might even be other chapters that have sprung up in other cities, like a wildfire of justice slowly sweeping the East Coast and beyond.

And yet, he had a certain pride when it came to the movement; after all, it had originally been his idea. And so not previously knowing of another Front's existence was grating.

Who the hell did these people think they were, using their name without Dan's knowledge or approval? How did he know if they were qualified for the job? What if they were hacks, tarnishing the Front's reputation? Or what if they were actually better than the originals?

"What can you tell me about these guys, Roger?" inquired Crow.

"Don't know much. They're regular folks, just like you and that Spock fella. You know, law-abidin' citizens and whatnot. From time to time, one of them will find me and ask me if I've seen anything new, and I'll give 'em a scoop if I have one. Thing is, scoops are hard to come by, so most of the time, I got nothin'. It's why I don't go botherin' 'em at their place, 'cause I rarely got anything to give 'em. Say, what do you plan on doing once you get there, Crow?"

"Not sure yet. I just want talk to them. See where they're coming from."

"Fair enough."

Dan followed Old Roger along Allen Street, not knowing how much longer they had to go. They walked in silence for a time. Eventually, they passed a baseball field, where some neighborhood kids were batting it out.

"You like baseball, Crow?"

"Can't say I have a passion for it, no."

"That right? A shame. Loved baseball when I was younger. Still do. Used to play all the time as a kid, and went to see a bunch of major league games. Was a big fan of the Red Sox in particular. I'd go with my dad to catch a game whenever they were in town. Don't get to go to stadiums no more, but sometimes, I'll stop by a field and watch people play if there's a game going. Your dad ever take you out to see ball games, Crow?"

"I didn't have a father growing up."

"Oh," said Roger in a lowered voice. "My condolences."

"What?" asked a perplexed Dan. "Oh, he's not dead or anything. Although, maybe he is. I wouldn't know. He left when I was about two years old. My mother Sheryl never liked to talk about why they divorced, and as I got older, I just stopped asking. The only real things I actually know about my father are basic biographical details, what he looked like from photos, and his name. Roderick Stanley Thompson. He's never once tried to make contact with us since, so I assume he's either living out his life somewhere, or he's de – Roger?"

He suddenly became aware that his were the only steps reaching his ears. He turned around to see Old Roger standing, bearing somewhat of a sorrowful gaze.

"That's...a pretty sad story, Crow."

"It might be sadder if I had actually known the guy," replied Dan, growing increasingly resentful as he broached the topic of his absent father. "I know my parents divorced and all, but I don't see why he would never visit or called, or why I didn't go to his house every other weekend. He apparently wasn't the abusive type or anything like that, but he also didn't have some sort of joint custody arrangement with my mom, so I guess he decided to walk away one day, which is just ridiculous. I mean, what the hell kind of father just _walks away_ from their family like that?"

For a moment, Roger simply stared at the pacing Crow, who was more worked up than Roger suspected he realized. When he resumed his walk, he answered him.

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge the guy, Crow," he said. "See, I find myself on the other side of the coin." Dan fell in line beside the man to listen, curiosity piqued. "I had a family too, long time ago. Heh, married my high school sweetheart, wouldn't you know. Had ourselves a kid, eventually. We weren't what you'd call rich, though. One day, the company I worked went bankrupt; economy and everything. Then my father and brother died around the same time. I was unable to find a decent job, either, and got depressed. Always liked to drink in moderation, but I started drinkin' more and more to cope. My wife kicked me out when my kid was still young; she didn't want a constantly drunken father around her child, you know?"

"What did you do after that?"

"What else could I do? I packed my things and left. At the time, I was bitter about it, but lookin' back, it was probably for the best. I was in a bad shape, after all. Tried to make it on my own; even tried to quit drinkin' completely, both on my own and with 'em AA meetings, but every time... Just wasn't strong enough. Best I did was get me a crappy office job for two or three years, but that only made me want to drink more. Eventually, I was fired, and when I couldn't pay the rent anymore, I got evicted. At that point, I had nothing, and had to start sleeping in the park. Gave up for many years. Eventually tried to get back off my feet a few times, start from scratch, but that didn't work. Also tried to kill myself a few times, but failed at that, too."

Dan was surprised at how dark a turn the conversation had taken. It was strange to think that Old Roger might not even have been around for Dan to meet. "You're a surprisingly candid guy, Roger," he noted with respect.

"The streets make an honest man out of everyone," replied the vagabond. "When you've lost everything, all you've got is yourself, and you either learn to live with yourself, or you suffer. It sucked for a long time, but being homeless wasn't so bad, after awhile. Gives you a new way of looking at life, you know? Eventually started my little trading operation to keep me going, and here I am today."

Dan was stirred by Roger's story. It made him reflect on the trajectory of his own life. He had never been an ambitious, not putting much effort into high school, though passing with decent enough grades. He had tried college, as that was apparently what he was supposed to do; he had studied in creative writing, thinking he might be able to capitalize on his mind's capacity for creating intricate ideas and scenarios. But alas, he quickly became disillusioned and dropped out part way through his second year. What was the point of living the American Dream, he thought, when the waking truth was nightmarish? At the age of fourteen, he had woken up, and had never been able to fall back to sleep. Since college, he had gone on to work a variety of low-level jobs, never accomplishing anything of value, because nothing really mattered.

He _had_ found something that mattered in recent times, however, and it was the first time in his entire life that he could say he had any sense of purpose or direction in this weird experience they called reality.

"Anyway," continued Roger, "point of all this is that even though I haven't heard from my family in years, and that I miss 'em like hell, I've taken comfort in knowing that my kid was better off growin' up without a father than raised with an incompetent one. Can't blame you for resentin' your dad, Crow – I'm sure my son does the same – but I'm pretty sure that whatever the reason he left, he... he misses his family more than anything, just as I do with mine. Now, I know it ain't none of my business telling you how you should go about with your personal life, but there ain't no man in this world who stops loving their kid after holding their newborn bodies in their arms for the first time. Just something to think about."

The pair fell silent after that, Old Roger giving Crow something to chew on. Had his father left because he was falling apart, to remove his toxic influence from the Thompson household, as homeless Roger had done for his own family? Was his father still alive somewhere, living in regret for a family he abandoned, possibly because there was no better choice? For a moment, he let himself buy into the scenario, but then he remembered that without proof, it was just as likely that Papa Thompson had left because he didn't like the idea of being a father, or had second doubts about his commitment to Sheryl, or any number of shallow reasons.

The worst part of it all was that Dan would probably never know what really happened, and it was the lack of knowing, the truth lying beyond sight, beyond reach, that was what was really bothering him.

He sighed as he paced along a rather nervous Old Roger, stewing in bitterness, which almost invariably happened when he would think of his father every now and again. He remained this way until they reached their destination, and the two halted to assess the locale across the street from the brick alley they had crossed.

"Well," said Roger. "There it is."

The wind picked up, bringing a chill to them; evidently, the excellent weather was destined to be short-lived.

"Thanks, Roger," said Crow, turning to shake the man's hand. "You've been a lot of help."

"Yeah... no problem."

Dan started to cross the lonesome road, ready to face whatever was waiting for him inside.

"Hey, Crow," shouted Old Roger. "You sure you, uh... don't want me to come with ya or anythin'?"

"I'll be fine," answered Dan, walking backward to speak.

"Alright then," said Roger, seeming a bit disappointed. "Oh, and uh... if you ever need my help again or something... well, you know where to find me."

"Sure thing," yelled Dan, now across the street.

"Be careful in there!"

Dan raised his hand as he walked, letting the vagabond know the message had been received. He crossed the fence, hands dug in his coat pockets; a quick glance behind him revealed that Old Roger was still standing at the mouth of the alley, looking on, fidgeting with his hands. The old man would not be treated to the show, however, nor would anyone else.

Once again, it was a solitary Dan against the World.

The first door he found happened to be locked. However, he managed to lift up the panel door to the right with some effort, prying it loose and gaining access to the metal shop. The place was not the tidiest, as was the norm for such workshops. Metallic dust and shavings parsed the concrete floor, while varied workstations were arranged around the place, grinding wheels and perforators and drills and things Dan didn't know the name for. A quick peek into an adjacent compartment revealed the presence of arc welders and plasma cutters along with a few workstations, and a repository of crap metal to be used when required.

It was a bit dark in the further portions of the workshop, but the outside illumination allotted by the panel door was enough for Dan to make his assessment of the locale. Roger had said they hung out underneath the workshop, however, so there would be little use in hanging on the surface. It was somewhat eerie in that place; the sound of the wind had all but been muted upon entering the building, and Dan's footsteps echoed, the only thing audible to his ears.

When he found a door leading downstairs, he paused, looking down the staircase. What apprehension he might have felt in entering an unknown place without any weapons was blocked out by his resolve, his focus. As he had waited for Old Roger to appear in his alleyway homestead, Dan, sobered by his encounter with Gottfried, came to realize in his lone contemplation that he would need to harden himself if he was to wage an effective struggle against the First Wave. With the stakes being so high, there could be no place for self-doubt or hesitation, things he had entertained throughout his journey.

There could be no doubt, no hesitation; these were lead weights tied to his shoes, holding him back, preventing Dan from truly becoming Crow, to become the one they were all counting on to lead them to freedom. So when he descended the stairs, he did so without fear, the only thing troubling him being that unease borne of primal instinct that comes to the forefront when faced with the uncertainty inherent to entering an unfamiliar locale without a weapon.

He had considered going back to the hotel to retrieve a handgun, but he didn't want the others to start asking about what he was doing, or where he was going; he wasn't sure if he was even ready to confront the others quite just yet, still reeling from Gottfried setting him straight. Now having a much clearer understanding of his place in things, he knew what was required of him. To this end, he had decided to pursue this other Liberation Front alone, a self-imposed test to see what he was made of, was capable of when he had to rely on his ability alone. Only then would he know if he was truly worthy of leading others, and to have others look up to him as a leader they could depend upon.

Crow entered the workshop basement, not taking three steps before something cold, hard, and metallic pressed against his right temple. Halted, Crow put his hands up, emphasizing that he was not a threat.

"Looks like you're lost."

The voice sounded like it belonged to a young man; he stood beyond Dan's periphery, and he wasn't going to turn his head to see.

"I might be," answered Crow. "You know where I could find the Liberation Front?"

The barrel of the gun pressed with greater pressure, accompanied by a sharp _click _of a cocking hammer.

"Who's asking?"

"Crow," he said, turning his head slightly. "Of the Liberation Front."

There was a pause, and a small decrease in pressure on his temple. It was strange; had Dan found himself in this situation a few months ago, he probably would have been paralyzed by a dread gripping its claws around his neck, but here and now, he was rather serene, and even a bit amused.

The guy holding the gun whistled sharply. Others emerged from concealment from behind the metal beams of the decrepit place, entering the light of the overhead fluorescent setup. There were six of them, all holding weapons of differing kinds; the individual that drew Dan's attention the most was the guy in the black hoodie wearing a Guy Fawkes mask.

"How do we know you are who you say you are?" asked the masked man, voice somewhat muffled.

Crow thought for a moment, musing on the question. When his eyes dropped to the floor, an idea formed, and he began to descend to a knee. The seventh individual holding him at gunpoint continued to wield his pistol as the man claiming to be Crow picked up a shard of glass off the concrete floor. He then slit the tip of his finger before plainly showing the red bead forming at the incision.

"I'm the real deal," said Crow. "If that's what you're asking."

He let the piece of glass drop to the floor, not having any further use for it, before inspecting his self-inflicted wound, which bore the faintest of strings. He was drawn away from his finger when the masked man took a few steps forward, stopping about a foot before Dan. There he stood, the squinting eyes in Fawkes' pale and smiling face giving no indication of what the man behind his facade was thinking, though Dan still held his own, remaining steadfast.

"I believe you," said Fawkes. He extended his gloved hand. "It's an honour to meet you, Crow."

Crow shook the offered hand. At this, the rest of the group eased themselves, the black man to Crow's right at last lowering his gun, and the tension in the air left all at once.

"Since you've heard of me," said Crow, the handshake brought to a close, "I must be in the right place."

"You were looking for us?" asked Fawkes. "How did you find us?"

"A man named Old Roger led me here. Said this is where I could find the Liberation Front."

"You've met him? Well, he's certainly led you to the right place," replied Fawkes. "I'm The Guy, and this is our little Shadow Gallery. Why don't you have a seat?"

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

"I suppose introductions are in order," said The Guy.

They had brought Crow to the far end of the basement area, where two tables were found, one being a computer workstation, and the other covered in assorted documents and maps. Other than Dan, Guy, and a tough-looking Latin dude, everyone had taken a seat at either of the tables.

The Guy began by introducing Axiom, the black man that had held Dan at gunpoint. His hair was buzzed short, and he sported stubble for a beard; he was also broad-shouldered and had an imposing frame, the kind of body suited for contact sports.

"Sorry for being all rough with you back there, man," said Axiom. "You know how it is."

"Don't worry about it," said Crow.

Next was Source, the resident high school aged tech and surveillance expert. Source sat at the computer workstation, the edges of his blond hair showing beneath the brim of his black beanie.

"We knew you were here when you triggered the sensors out on the lot," said Source. "But all the entrances were supposed to be locked. How did you get in?"

"I managed to wrench the panel door open," replied Crow. "I guess the crossbar was loose."

"Well, better you than someone else, right?" said Source. "Speaking of which, I'd better go make sure it's locked tight this time and reset the alarm."

Source departed, scurrying past the metal beams to head to ground level.

"He's pretty young," noted Crow.

"The shifters don't discriminate between the young and old, male or female, rich or poor," said Guy. "They'll kill you and take your face all the same. The more people willing to contribute, the better our chances will be. Besides, Source has lent vital support to our cause, building custom surveillance equipment and security countermeasures for this place. He's also pretty capable, as all people can be when given the chance."

Dan acquiesced with a nod; The Guy did make a point.

The Latino thug leaning against a beam was Cazador. He looked like someone who would be more at ease in a street gang than a ragtag resistance group, what with his shaven head, mean face, and intricate tattoos on his muscular arms, shown for all to see in the white A-shirt he was wearing. Upon being addressed, Cazador simply nodded, apparently not one for talking.

There were three women in The Guy's team as well. Adept was bespectacled lady wearing what Dan recognized as a pentacle, Starseed had her braided hair tucked back into a thick ponytail, and Dryad seemed to subscribe to a punk chick aesthetic, hair cropped short and sporting a few piercings; the first greeted Dan with a restrained smile and wave of the hand, the second with a warm Namaste, and the third with a more casual What's Up.

They were an eclectic bunch, thought Dan, but he was well accustomed to diversity by this point, and felt rather at home among these people.

"And as stated earlier, I'm The Guy," finished Fawkes just as Source returned from his venture.

"The Guy, huh? Why the name?"

"Because I'm just some guy," he said. "I am no one, and so can be anyone I want and anyone you want me to be."

"Fan of Anonymous, by any chance?" asked Crow, underlining the Fawkes mask.

"They have their heart in the right place, but I think they would benefit from redirecting their efforts to more productive venues, as we here have. I wear this mask less out of adhering to the ideologies of a decentralized hacker movement and more out of respect for Moore's original revolutionary."

"You can't be killed," said Crow, catching on.

"Because I'm an idea, and ideas are bulletproof," said Guy. "And the idea we value is that anyone can rise and take control of their destiny."

Dan raised an amused eyebrow. "Even some guy?"

The Guy snickered knowingly. "_Especially _some guy."

Dan took in the sight of this other Liberation Front, and found himself swelling with a certain pride, realizing that these people would not be here had Crow not pursued his plan despite his reservations. Though this led to the inevitable question.

"You guys took our name," said Crow. "Where did you find out about the Front?"

"We heeded the Watchdog's call," answered The Guy. "He sent out his message to the masses, calling all who were willing to join the Liberation Front. I found myself so inspired by his message that I decided to form a Liberation Front right here in New York City. I forwarded the message, and others responded, leading to the formation of our present company."

"Watchdog still running with you guys?" asked Axiom.

Dan felt a sudden sickening pang in his abdomen as he brought himself to answer the question.

"Watchdog's not running with anyone, anymore," informed Crow. "He was killed in action during our Titan sabotage mission a few months back."

The dim room appeared darken, the news coming as a blow to the crew. Even The Guy seemed taken aback, his asked head dropping as a sort of silent vigil.

"Titan sabotage?" said Adept, curious. "What would that be?"

Crow narrowed his eyes. "How much do you guys know about the First Wave?"

"First Wave?" echoed Starseed, curious.

Of course, Dan thought; not everyone had broken into Shapeshifter lairs to steal their sensitive documents. All at once, his meeting with Gottfried resurfaced in his mind. It occurred to him that he hadn't even returned to the hotel since his escapade at Central Park. Evidently, something would need to be done about that.

"Alright, listen up," said Crow, addressing the whole. "Here's what's going to happen. First, I'll regroup with my team and bring them back here. Then, we'll have a joint-Front briefing."

"I guess we have a lot of catching up to do," noted The Guy.

"Yes we do. And I'm not too sure where to start myself."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The Liberation Front was very eager to meet the Liberation Front.

After heading out in Axiom's car, Crow brought the newcomer with him to their room at the Barkley Hotel, where only Spock was waiting; the others were out looking for Crow, as he had not informed them where he had went, and could not reach him, as Dan had turned off his cell, wanting some time to himself.

They contacted Enigma, Druid, and Polaris so as to summon them back to the hotel. Only once everyone had convened did Crow formally introduce his companion, revealing where he came from. As he had anticipated, the rest were puzzled at the existence of another Front, but after filling them in on the background of the New York branch, they proved to be welcoming of the idea, invigorated by the thought that they were not the only ones fighting the good fight.

Axiom led the cavalcade, Crow opting for the comfort of the Oldsmobile for the return trip. The team parked their vehicles on the street where the workshop was held, the septet converging at the building. The group was uneasy at being so numerous out in the open, checking around for anyone who might have been watching, though thankfully, there appeared to be none.

At the door to the workshop, Axiom rapped his knuckles on the surface in a short, deliberate motion. The door was unlocked, and an armed Cazador showed himself, greeting them without a word, allowing the group inside. As a single file, Cazador led them downstairs, where they finally reunited with the Yankee-brand Front.

Introductions were much more efficient this time around; Crow simply named each of his comrades, who were each given a brief greeting, and The Guy did the same for his group. After a moniker had been attributed to every new face, all eyes turned to Crow, the one who had ordained this joint council.

"You're probably all wondering how it is I tracked down Guy's team," began Crow. "Well, let's say that I encountered a reliable source earlier today."

"Old Roger?" guessed The Guy.

"Close, but no. Vincent Allen Gottfried. A First-Gen Hybrid and First Wave commander."

Crow's people were stunned, the name familiar to them, and while Guy's crew was not so familiar, even they recognized the gravity of the reveal, given Crow's grim turn in tone.

He proceeded to tell them all he knew from the beginning.

Pacing back and forth, Crow relayed all the information Gottfried had shared with him, as well as briefing Guy's team on what exactly the Hybrids were, in addition to the Harvesters and the Titans; the Shapeshifter Intel Dan had brought from the hotel was being passed around as he recited what he knew. He then recounted his mission with Spock at a Shapeshifter lair, and their successful sabotage of a Titan development site; tales of these heroic exploits left Guy's group amazed, who admitted to have only made a few successful, but comparatively tame hits against the shifters.

Everyone had questions for Crow, but he only knew so much, and understood even less. After concluding his tale, a lengthy silence ensued, everyone processing the surplus of information.

"So," began Source after a time. "What happens next?"

"What happens next is simple," said The Guy. "Now that we know what we're up against, we can devise more effective strategies against our adversaries. I imagine you already have some ideas, Crow."

Crow nodded, cross-armed. "Gottfried is overseeing something called Yggdrasil Seeds. Going by the project documents, it seems these Seeds are connected to the Second Wave."

"They're already laying the ground for the Harvesters?" said Starseed, not too keen on the notion.

"It seems the current Shapeshifters have been around since 1990," said Crow, "and Gottfried's First-Gen buddies even longer. Twenty years after the First Wave started, it isn't too much of a surprise that they would start preparing for the next phase in their plan."

"That's nice and all, Crow," said Spock, "but we don't have any leads on Yggdrasil sites."

"Then we'll start looking," replied Crow.

"It took us an entire week of chance encounters and lucky breaks to get here," said Enigma. "We're going to need to form a solid plan, and we only have two days left."

"Yeah, man," said Axiom. "I got classes on Monday."

"School for me," added Source. "I got to finish my damn History project. Sucks ass."

Members on both sides nodded in agreement, relating their impending obligations of the coming week. Crow also recalled that he had a shift at the Quickway convenience store on Monday. Ever since teaming up with Spock, he was able to find escape from a life that was going nowhere; in this past week, he had nearly forgotten what it was to lead an ordinary existence, and the prospect of returning to that world was made more surreal from his recent experiences.

He supposed that was simply the price to pay. Batman had to juggle his human persona with his vigilante one, after all, and Dan had managed to do relatively find up to now. Unless he was more like Kal-El, who created the persona of Clark Kent just as Crow created the persona of Daniel Thompson, hiding his true self from the world.

When he realized he would never be as cool as Superman or Batman, Dan abandoned this train of thought.

"Having other obligations doesn't mean we can't make progress in the meantime," stated Crow. "We have tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday. That's more than enough time to stark working on strategy."

"Agreed," said The Guy. "Though we will be parting ways soon enough, so it will be imperative that we remain in touch."

"We'll deal with that later. Right now, we need to get to work."

With that, the group began to organize the documents on the table, preparing to present the Boston branch what they have gathered on the shifters thus far. Crow listened intently as The Guy walked him through their material, feeling a certain sense of urgency.

Because as an old friend told him once at Sheep's Meadow, their days were numbered, and their time was running out.


	23. Chapter 22: Intercept

Chapter 22: Intercept

Jones may have died, but at no point did the Silent War pause to grieve.

It almost had a will of its own at this point. No one person had full control over its course, a large puppet with strings twisted and tangled by the conflicting pulls of its many puppeteers. Only those who knew where all the strings led had a chance of manipulating events to their advantage. The problem was that no one had such absolute knowledge, not even the Witnesses.

Take William Bell, for instance; the human who, for reasons they had yet to determine, has been playing both sides against one another since the onset of the Silent War. The thrust of the inter-world conflict was survival in the advent of the Collision. Fighting for Sector-2 were the Captains of ZFT and Massive Dynamic, while Sector-1 was represented by the GDC and the North Woods Group. And yet Bell worked on behalf of both, against both.

Was he acting as a double agent in the GDC for the benefit of Sector-2, his own world of origin? If he was, then why aid the GDC in the creation of their biomechanical soldiers? The Witnesses had Proxy moles stationed in the lower tiers of ZFT and the GDC, but none within the trusted circle of their leaders; their intentions were thus only known through their actions.

What were Bell's true intentions?

The way he would choose to react to the ramifications of this Event would, with any luck, give further insight into the mind of William Bell.

September was working alone this time. There would be no need for August or any other Witness to assist him, as the Event in question was rather simple. All he had to do was prevent Olivia Dunham from getting killed.

He stood near the three-way intersection where it was set to happen. There was a car parked on the perpendicular street, a single man lying in wait. September knew that this was no human, but a facsimile of one. A Second-Generation Hybrid, its official designation was, currently donning the guise of the now-deceased George Reed. Part organic, part mechanical, it was of Bell's creation, just like its kindred. And it was Bell who was responsible for receiving and sending all communiqués on the Selectric typewriter network, coordinating the activities of both the Hybrids and the NWG Vanguard Cell agents on behalf of the GDC.

But this one was not following Bell's orders today. It was following Manning's.

At least, that was what September theorized after peering into the Shapeshifter's mercury-suffused brain. Calibration with Hybrids was instantaneous, their biomechanical minds not quite as sophisticated as a wholly organic brain. From across the street, September could also trace information input and output running along the spine to the sacral region, where the Data Disk was stored. It was there that September saw the task assigned to them, encrypted in high-grade mathematical code which the Witness deciphered in moments.

_Target will be in Manhattan in five days. Intercept and eliminate. _

The Proxy mole in Sector-1's Department of Defence had informed the Witnesses of the completion of Thomas Jerome Newton's new body. And by intercepting the communiqué Nina Sharp sent to Bell to ordain a meeting for Olivia, as well as through information relayed by their Proxy in BellMedic – the secretary, as it happened – the Overseer had pieced together Bell's intent to warn Olivia Dunham of Newton's impending reactivation.

But if Bell's intent was to have Olivia crossover safely to meet, then why would he deploy Hybrids to intercept her? Given Bell's countermeasures to ensure her safety, the only conclusion was that someone had discovered Bell's plans, but that Bell had also learned his cover had been blown, leading him to implement contingency plans through Nina Sharp.

There were three Hybrids working in unison for this mission. One had hacked the FBI database for details on Olivia Dunham's vehicle, a second had tailed Olivia from Boston to New York, and the third masquerading as George Reed was stationed in Manhattan. On the instructions of his acolyte, who was tailing the FBI Agent on Broadway, George Reed had placed himself at the mouth of an intersection, waiting to strike at the opportune moment.

The only two individuals in the GDC who could have uncovered Bell's duplicity would be Walter Bishop and Karl Manning. Of the two, Manning was the likelier candidate; he was one of May's assigned Subjects, and instances of Passive Calibration confirmed the man's intense suspicion of Bell. But if it was Manning, how did he discover Bell's double agency? The Witness supposed that it didn't matter; whether or not Bell made successful contact with Olivia, his subterfuge was broken, or soon would be.

Thankfully for Bell, Olivia's transfer was almost guaranteed; he also had an unwitting ally in September, as his plans were compatible with the Directive, which would only boost his chances for success.

It began.

George Reed received the heads-up through his disposable cellphone; the target was approaching. He turned the ignition and set his hands on the wheel, waiting for the black SUV. September readied himself, seeing Olivia's SUV and the second Hybrid tailing close behind from his vantage point.

The SUV showed its face. Reed revved his car and lurched forward. Discarding all caution, he accelerated directly into the vehicle, tires squealing.

What came next were the mingled cries of buckling metal and shocked passersby.

The two vehicles now sat in the middle of the intersection, both of their front benders crushed and loose from the impact. Taking out his specs, September observed the site through multiple filters. An X-Ray analysis showed the slumped form of the Shapeshifter lying in the silver vehicle that had acted as his spear.

The SUV, however, was empty. Olivia Dunham was gone.

Bell's momentum deferral technology proved effective, it seemed. Proxies in Massive Dynamic had alerted the Witnesses that, under Nina's directions, the modules had been implanted in Olivia's vehicle. September had also followed Nina as she went to the recently-shutdown Mitsumi Hotel, where she was waiting for Olivia with harmonic rods to transfer her to Sector-1. The momentum deferral tech had been a contingency in case something happened to Olivia on her way to Nina; evidently, it had worked in Bell's favour.

The only question was how Bell contacted Nina, as all the messages intercepted from their correspondence suggested Bell was unable to reply. Though clearly, it had been successful, or Nina would not be lying in wait at the Mitsumi Hotel.

September stood on the sidelines, observing the wrecked cars. Olivia was somewhere else, now, somewhere far away.

Unobserved, September shifted to Sector-1.

But Olivia was not there. In fact, there was no evidence that anything out of the norm had occurred in that intersection.

Just as it should be.

He shifted back to Sector-2, where much hubbub unfolded at the nearby crash site. The physics of momentum deferral was something the Overseer was well aware of, and he took the liberty of explaining to September what to expect over his MultiCell. Olivia was now in the seas of Potential States bordering both Sectors, possible realities whose physicality was denied to them by universal wave function collapse; and through Cortexiphan, Olivia projected herself to a place of her subconscious choosing, her mind protecting itself from the jarring effects of the deferral.

From her perspective, she was probably not even aware that she had narrowly evaded what would have been a fatal crash.

Bell's job would be to fish her out and reel her back into Sector-1. To do this, Mercedony had said, Bell would need to use a deferral field emitter with reverse polarity, which upon activation would draw on a portion of Olivia's stalled momentum to the counter-emitter's location, pulling her to Sector-1 through the sea of Potential States lying between Olivia and Bell. Miss Jensen, the secretary of the BellMedic offices at the Twin Towers, had informed them that Bell had installed something in the South Tower elevator to BellMedic in the past few days, which must have been none other than the reverse-polarity emitters.

If the deferral tech in the SUV worked, then the emitters in the South Tower should work as well; a meeting between Bell and his Gatekeeper was now inevitable.

The question was what Bell would do now that the GDC has uncovered his treason.

The Shapeshifter fell out his car, sliding onto the asphalt. He spiraled in place, disoriented, trying to gain his bearings. September watched the mock human stumble away from the crash site, seeking a new face to sever all possible ties he had to the crash.

Police sirens wailed in the distance as September walked down the sidewalk. The Event's significance's was relatively minor on the grander scale of things, but its repercussions would reach far wider on the web that was the Silent War. Bell was now in check, but would he end up in checkmate? That wouldn't bode well; the Witnesses needed him in play, at least long enough to discover his agenda and determine if they could influence it to their advantage.

Until they did, Bell would be on his own, and the Witness was keen to see what would happen when one of the Silent War's most significant puppeteers had the strings severed from the rods they held.

Thoughts of the Silent War were put on hold when his MultiCell buzzed just as he was preparing to depart. He took out the device and read the message on the screen:

"_**Activate Summons Protocol**_  
_**Location Sector Beta-2 [48.907/10.794/-88.721]**_  
_**Time at 6:00:00 PM Local **_  
_**[Priority code 1618]"**_

September stopped in his tracks. Those were the coordinates to Schloss Hohenberg.

Why would the Overseer summon him to Für Immer?

The last time September had visited Für Immer was in 1985, when he was forced to confront Mercedony directly for his mistake. It was not the Overseer's short-lived admonishment that had been unbearable, but his ensuing disheartenment. They had stood in the laboratory hallways, looking at the Beacon down below from the observation pane, and Mercedony had confided that it was getting harder and harder to keep the Directive in line. September's mistake had certainly added sudden complications, he had noted, but perhaps the cause had long since been lost anyway.

To have heard his mentor question the viability of their enterprise had been most shocking to September. The Overseer had always assured them that through diligence, they would succeed. Had he been lying to them all this time? Then again, Mercedony had kept much from his Witnesses, as they had learned in recent times.

Whatever the case, September had resolved to redouble his discipline and tenacity following the Zero Event, to do anything he could to ease the Overseer's great burden.

He wasn't sure why he was being summoned now, though. Did it have to do with his role in the Zero Event, or something else? His thoughts turned to February, who had apparently encountered a Guardian some weeks ago, suffering a loss in their ensuing battle. It was the first confirmed sighting of a Guardian since their briefing at the Council Chamber and the implementation of the Gemini Protocol. Perhaps he was being called to discuss something pertaining to their adversaries. Was he the only one being invited to their headquarters?

He surmised that he would only know once he got there. It would take a few hours to alter the probability that he was in Germany as opposed to Manhattan, and he would have to leave soon if he was to make it in time.

He had not had reason to venture to Für Immer in over twenty-four years. Yet while he would have been ordinarily eager to visit the place where he was created and trained, he had the sense that what news awaited him in those white halls would not be something he would enjoy hearing.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Three dark silhouettes flittered across the European landscape by the fading light of evening.

From Turkey, they crossed into Bulgaria, then cut through Serbia, Hungary, and Austria. They reached South Germany just under an hour following their departure from Istanbul, led on by the scentless trail of the Beacon's recent journey.

What would they find at the end of this path? Would they find the Beacon, or where the Overseer hid it? Would they find Für Immer? They knew the name, but not the location, much like how the site of Voskresenie was unknown to the Overseer. More than once had the Guardians wondered what lied in the heart of their adversary's halls.

Voskresenie was only a half hour away at their supersonic traveling speed, with its training quarters and research labs and recreational areas and the quantum supercomputer the Caretaker used in plotting his Will. If the Beacon was anywhere close, they would soon be returning there.

As it turned out, the Beacon was close; somewhere in Bavaria, the needles began to sway, indicating they had passed their target. Backtracking, they followed the compasses, coming ever closer to the Beacon's resting place. The thought that they were nearing their objective after so much toiling energized them, guiding their steps with greater urgency.

Three days after leaving Boston, they found the place they were looking for.

A castle.

The Guardians stood in a wide field, wild grass crawling up their calves. The field bled into wooded expanses to their left, while a dirt road long the imposing hill to their right. The hill fenced the field to their right for about five hundred feet, then curving left before them, enclosing the southern and eastern edges of the field. The castle sat on the eastern hill's summit, the moonward face cast in gentle silver while the rest was cloaked in shadow.

"It seems the trail ends here," noted Wednesday, looking around.

"Could this be Für Immer?" said Thursday, hushing out of concern that the Overseer might be watching or listening to them.

"I am not sure," said Saturday. "It is only a castle."

"Voskresenie is built beneath an abandoned apartment complex," reminded Wednesday. "Perhaps Für Immer is located beneath this castle."

"We should investigate the site closer," suggested Saturday.

They nodded in agreement, then found themselves atop the hill barely a second later, standing in the dirt expanse that served as the site's parking lot. It was a medieval-era castle, judging by the masonry, although it had clearly seen restoration in recent times; an examination of a nearby plaque embedded in a sizeable boulder revealed castle as one of those rustic tourist attractions.

_SCHLOSS HOHENBERG_

_ZIRKA 1147_

There was an information center nearby, a wooded lodge lying at the rear of the parking lot. The Guardians went inside the vacant place, finding a few tables, bathrooms, a small canteen, and an information booth filled with pamphlets detailing the history of the castle, as well as maps and features. With nothing of interest to be found in here, the Guardians moved on to the castle proper.

Through the restored portcullis they went, which gave way to the bailey. Some of the battlements were chipped from erosion and fallen portions, but the yards were tended well enough, with no rubble to be seen, and the courtyard proved similarly clean. The trio zipped around the place, atop the walls and beneath the inner gates, scouting points of potential interests and trying to make out what was written on the informative signs in the night-time gloom.

They reunited at the heart of the grounds to enter the central keep as a group, Tunnelling through the wall of its southern face to gain entry. They explored the upper floors, where additional signs and panels gave context on the rooms found within; afterward, they descended to the dark passages beneath ground level, using the filters in their black specs to find their way.

The trio found a dead-end in the form of a cellar; model wine barrels were stacked on either side to show what it might have looked like 860 years in the past. Wednesday knocked on one of the barrels, and the noise was rendered odd by the acoustics of the stone chamber. Seeing this, Thursday, who was leaning against the back wall, made a monotone, lazy call, which too ended up processed through the cellar's reverberation filter. The Guardians joined together in a toneless chanting devoid of cohesion, listening to the amplified properties of their voices; when the novelty of the effect wore off, they exited the chamber, returning to the surface.

They convened in the shadow of the keep.

"Where do you think one might access Für Immer?" asked Thursday.

"I do not know," replied Wednesday. "But it is irrelevant. There is no need to find the entrance if we can simply Tunnel straight down, yes?"

"What if the Overseer has countermeasures against intruders?" asked Saturday. "Or some sort of anti-Tunnelling technology? And would happen if one of us is discovered once inside?"

"We have no choice but to venture inside," said Wednesday. "The Beacon must be held somewhere within. One of us should go inside to scout."

When they turned to Saturday, he took a step back. "Why do you look at me? I am not going. I have already sought out the anomaly. It is your turn this time."

Saturday crossed his arms to further cement his position; in his very recent experience, pursuing unknown variables tended to end poorly.

To decide which of them – Wednesday or Thursday – would have the privilege of peeking into the Overseer's halls on the group's behalf, they played a variant of Rock, Paper, Scissors in which the goal was to get as many winning hands in ten seconds. Serving as the arbiter, Saturday timed the affair, and at his command, they began. Their forearms were blurs, and in ten short seconds, they had exchanged between two and three thousand hands.

The deed done, they paused to calculate the percentages.

"I made one thousand four hundred and seventy-eight winning moves," said Thursday. "That amounts to fifty-two percent of all winning hands. You have failed and must now descend to Für Immer. Ha."

"Very well," conceded Wednesday, albeit none too gladly.

"We will wait for you on the fields below," said Saturday. "Map out as much as you can. The moment you suspect that you might be detected, return to us at once."

When Wednesday fell through the solid ground, Thursday and Saturday retreated to the fields at the foot of the hill, well away from the castle. Here they waited, their black longcoats swaying in the gentle wind.

The Guardian returned much sooner than they had anticipated.

"What did you find?" asked Thursday.

"I found... nothing."

Curious glances abound.

"Nothing?"

"There is nothing beneath the castle," explained Wednesday, similarly astonished. "Only dirt and rock. Für Immer is not here, and neither is the Beacon."

Thursday took out his compass. "Yet the signal has led us here. What does this mean? Has the Overseer tricked us? Perhaps we should retrace our steps and find the correct trail."

"There is only one trail, and it has led us to these coordinates," refuted Saturday. "Should we ...abort?"

"We cannot abort the mission now," said Saturday. "Not without knowing where the Beacon is. Our Father will be disappointed in us."

There had been no interfering signals since their departure from Istanbul, so that had to be the correct trail. But why would it lead them to a dead-end? Something else was at play. Otherwise, it would mean they have failed, and that would be most unacceptable.

"What if... we are in the incorrect reality?"

A long silence ensued following Saturday's remark.

Then Thursday smashed his forehead into his open palm.

"What are you _doing_, brother?" asked Wednesday, suspecting something was very wrong with the Guardian.

"Humans do this, sometimes," he explained. "In my understanding, it is performed when you realize in retrospect that the solution to a difficult problem was far simpler than you had thought. It is called... _facepalming_."

Tentatively, Wednesday and Saturday proceeded to facepalm, bringing their open hands to their faces, producing the clap of skin on bare skin.

"No, you are doing it wrong," said Thursday. "You must not cover your entire face. Only your forehead and eyes. And you must lean your head into the palm, like this."

He demonstrated the proper facepalm technique, and the others saw how much more efficient it was; their previous method hurt their noses a bit. The pair went at it again, the correct way this time.

"How is it now?" asked Saturday in his second facepalm.

"Yes, that is better," approved Thursday.

The trio did a few more facepalms to ensure they had mastered the technique. Once it was done, they all faced outward in the circle they were forming, preparing to travel to another world.

Closing their eyes, they shifted from Coagula to Solve.

Upon opening their eyes, they could see that everything was the same.

Everything, save the rustling in the grass that was growing louder.

Barely a moment after opening his eyes, Saturday noticed something headed straight for him. It was running forward blindly, head angled behind it; when it looked up to see the bald men that had appeared from nowhere, the thing slipped back with a piercing cry, the baseball cap it was wearing falling to the side.

The object – a panting child – sat transfixed on the ground, wet cheeks glimmering in the moonlight.

The Guardians lined up, exchanging glances, observing the peculiar boy. It was clear from the first glance that this was no ordinary human child. He held the glimmer of things of Coagula finding themselves in Solve, which signified him as a foreign presence in this world. And there were clues that also hinted at a partial bond to the Equation, which was most surprising, almost as surprising as his lack of hair follicles.

"Hello," said Wednesday, taking a step forward. "Who–"

_Stay away!_

The boy tried to back away, propping himself up on his arms. The Guardians tilted their heads. Telepathy?

Wednesday knelt, matching the boy's height.

_We mean you no harm. _

The Guardian held out his arms, and his brothers did the same. Children were delicate things, as all young things were, and thus had to be dealt with accordingly. Though somehow, Wednesday got the sense that the child was older than he appeared.

The boy sniffled, his puzzlement evident.

_You...no friend Reed?_

Wednesday arched back, seeing if his brothers recognized the name; their shrugs indicated they did not.

_We do not know any Reeds. I am Wednesday. These are my brothers, Thursday and Saturday. _

The bald man in the black coat gestured with his heavy-ringed hands to his associates, the one with the tattoo creeping up his neck and the one with the piercings on his face.

_Brothers?_

_Yes. Who are you?_

_I...Isen._

_Isen...That is a unique name. What are you doing out here, Isen? Why were you running?_

The boy called Isen let his eyes fall.

_Away. From him. _

He pointed to Schloss Hohenberg perched on yonder hill. In this reality, it appeared far more decrepit; some towers were missing or partially toppled, and from what they could tell in the dimness of night, it looked generally worse for wear. Clearly, it was no tourist attraction.

_Who is he, Isen?_

_Mister Richards. He hurt me before. Bad man._

_Tell me, Isen. Does Mister Richards live beneath the castle? _

_Yes._

Things were beginning to make sense, and Wednesday's suspicions were verified when he checked his compass; the signal it detected was fainter than it was in Coagula, but it was there, somewhere nearby.

"It is here," said Saturday, who, like Thursday, had also verified his compass.

A rush coursed through their brains as the picture became clear. Mister Richards had to be none other than the Overseer, and beneath Schloss Hohenberg – beneath the very ground they stood upon – was Für Immer, the central headquarters of the League of the Witnesses.

And deep within Für Immer laid the Beacon, the object that would ensure their victory.

_No want back. Take me?_

Isen's sudden plea was one of desperation and fear. Was the Overseer truly so fearful?

_You wish to come with us? _

_Yes! Must leave here!_

_I see. Please, wait here a moment. There is something I must discuss with my brothers._

Wednesday rose, and the Guardians huddled a few paces away, discussing in lowered voices. As they did, Isen rose to his feet, holding his arms in the cold of the night. Around a minute later, Wednesday and his brothers returned, smiles plastered on their pale faces.

_We will bring you with us, Isen._

Isen smiled wanly.

_Where?_

_You will come with us to Voskresenie, our home. Saturday will carry you on his back. _

_Um...okay._

Saturday turned and knelt, allowing Isen to mount his back. After rising, Saturday made sure his grip on the boy was secure, and it was his thoughts Isen received.

_You must hold on to me very tightly. We will be going quite fast. If at any point you feel discomfort, or I am going too fast for your liking, tell me at once. _

Isen redoubled his grip at the Guardian's suggestion. The brothers nodded, signalling their mutual readiness to depart.

"Let us ride," declared Wednesday.

Instantly, they were on their way to Voskresenie, and instantly, Isen wailed in telepathic fear and discomfort at the acceleration. The trio slowed down until they travelled at a leisurely pace of three hundred kilometers per hour. At that rate, they would only be reaching Pripyat in 4.5 hours, but none of them would be tiring anytime soon.

Finding Isen was most unexpected, but as the Guardians discussed during their aside, it may work in their favour. It would have been foolhardy to storm Für Immer for the Beacon with the Overseer lurking about. With the odds against their favour, they had no choice but to leave, regardless of whether they had encountered Isen or not.

But all was not lost. They now knew where Für Immer was located, and by extension, the Beacon; that alone gave them a significant advantage. The day when they would retrieve the Beacon was not yet upon them, it seemed.

But in the meantime, the Brotherhood may well have acquired something equally as valuable.


	24. Chapter 23: Mankind's Dream

Chapter 23: Mankind's Dream

To think that they were capable of so much with so little of the potential that was available to them.

What would they do if they could access what lied beyond their reach? What would happen if they were to awaken from their dream, to break the shackles that pinned them to the ground when all they wished for was to fly?

Would they rise above, soaring, or would they falter and plummet below?

Nothing was ever certain, but she nonetheless had great faith that mankind's awakening would be spectacular; there was nothing she was looking forward to more than seeing them open their eyes to their new world, led into the light by the brothers and sisters that would be awaiting them, she among them.

Humans, they called themselves. _Homo Sapiens_. She walked among them, embraced by the New York night. While she wore a brown leather coat and platform shoes and floral-pattern skirt, purse slung over her shoulder, perhaps the most essential component of her outfit was her necklace, a simple chain on which hung a semi-opaque gem. Coming to a stop at a crosswalk, she brought her hand to her neck, caressing the angular faces of the pale grapefruit crystal. Without it, she would not be able to walk in the open without drawing attention to herself; with it, she could go where she pleased. For those of her kind who found themselves far from home, these crystals served as indispensable aids, alleviating the strength required to maintain the perception-altering field that concealed their true selves from human eyes.

Standing in the middle of the human throng, she could see that they suspected nothing of the woman with the chestnut hair and emerald eyes. Yet as much as she would like to reveal herself – as all her people did – it would be more trouble than it would be worth, especially at this stage in their undertaking.

She was human too, of course; that wasn't the problem. It was simply that the way she classified as human was a bit... peculiar.

When the green man flashed in neon light, she allowed herself to be swept away by the human current, carrying her across the street. They could not see through her facade, but she could see through theirs. They sought to hide themselves from one another, dreading that their masks might crack; it was ironic that every man, woman, and child in these worlds were crying out in voices only she could hear, yearning to be heard by someone. But then, humans had always been contradictory creatures, and it was just one of the things that made them so endearing.

She hopped over a small puddle, the latest step in her journey to the Pearson Hotel. She could have hailed a taxi cab, but there was no rush. Commonplace was the complaint that there is never enough time, but there is time aplenty if one knows where to look – or perhaps more precisely, _how_ to look. Besides, she said she would be there when he called to say he was in town, and that was all that was needed.

Under the veranda she went, opening the door to the hotel. The uniformed clerk – a Hispanic male at the cusp of his thirties – was on the phone and inscribing in a notebook when she presented herself at the desk. The call terminated, he adopted a courteous manner before addressing the woman.

"Welcome to the Pearson Hotel," he said. "How may I help you?"

"My name is Esther Dei," she replied.

"Ah, yes. Mister Moroe is expecting you. I'll let him know you're here."

Even as he turned, she could see his eyes undressing her, brown eyes mechanically scanning her top to bottom, observing face, chest, waist, and hips in successive saccades. It was a reflexive act, something he gave as much thought to as breathing. She did not resent him for it, nor bore him any ill. Humans tend to assert that they were more than beings of pure instinct, but the truth was that instinct had more control over them than they liked to admit. In Esther's view, this wasn't a matter of positives or negatives; it was simply who they were, much as all things could be nothing but themselves.

And so she let his eyes wash over her, letting his brain analyze the relevant characteristics of her person at a nearly subconscious level. In the brief span of their exchange, he had assessed her threat level, her potential as a mate, the aesthetics of her body and her clothing choice, her potential placement in society based on superficial information, thereby figuring out which social groups she placed in; with data gleaned both consciously and subconsciously, he had painted a surprisingly detailed picture of her.

Though now, as the clerk spoke with Mister Moroe, a different sort of assessment was going on, with more sophisticated mental functions kicking in. He wondered what her connection was to Moroe. He tried to picture what she knew, what she remembered, what secrets she might be keeping. He imagined who she was, where she came from, and where she was going. He imagined an entire life with this Esther Dei; in fact, he imagined many possible lifetimes with her, of what could be and what might have been. What if she was my friend? My lover? My enemy? What if I had never met her at all?

All this he thought and more, only marginally aware of what he was doing, and Esther was privy to the whole show.

"Alright, Miss Dei," said the clerk following the short call. "He's waiting for you up in the penthouse suite."

"Thank you, dear," said Esther, allowing her hand to sit on those he rested on the desk as an amicable gesture.

"You take care now, Miss Dei," smiling at the sight of her own radiant grin.

As she made her way to the elevators, his eyes traced up her long legs to a posterior he wished that he could see without a coat blocking his sight. She smirked as he thought aloud – as all humans unknowingly did – broadcasting his thoughts like an organic radio tower. How many men had looked at her through the filter of sexual prospect? Yet somehow, it had yet to get old, and she continued to find most of these unspoken desires to be amusing at the least and flattering at the most.

That too had lasted but a moment, however, and the clerk returned to immersing himself in his administrative duties, his mind slowly forgetting her face, and the song being broadcast from his mind was now very different, clearer now with the white noise of baser instincts faded out.

_Hear me,_ went the wordless song. _Listen, for I have much to say, yet no one with whom to share. _

As they were as they are, so too was she as she was; she could thus not help but to know as he knew, to feel as he felt, to experience as he experienced. His pain was hers, as was his loneliness and longing. So it was with all humans, unwitting participants in a choir they were all deaf to, Esther and her people their sole audience. But what was perhaps most saddening was that humans, the children of sacrifice, didn't know what loss they were collectively lamenting; all they knew is that they weren't whole in some indescribable, yet intimately palpable sense, and it was the desire for completion, to restore the loss, that fuelled all human struggle.

But the age of lament is over, she thought to herself. Soon, things will be as they once were, as they were meant to be, and then would be ushered the end to the inner turmoil that was the story of Man. Waiting for the elevator to the penthouse to descend, she answered the clerk's plea in silence.

_Know that I hear you, child, even if no one else ever will. _

Upon entering the elevator, she pressed the 'P' dial which was set above all the other numbered buttons, and the smooth steel doors closed.

It was a sixty-four storey ascent to the penthouse suite. The elevator opened to a small, silent space; to the immediate left were the doors to the stairwell, but the door that interested her was found to the right. She rang the bell, standing, waiting, and when the door opened by its own apparent will, she ducked inside.

"Come in, come in!" resounded his voice.

The door closed the same way he had opened it, shutting gently behind Esther at Tom's command. Leaving her heels on the mat, she ventured further into the suite. The passage opened up to the left, revealing an open space with a high ceiling. The walls were a light cream, while the hardwood flooring and wood doorframes and borders were mahogany and ochre, earthen tones that imbued the suite in a warm atmosphere. The space extended left, where she saw a leather couch and sofa before a flatscreen of respectable girth mounted on the wall. A hallway went right, separating a kitchen space on one side and a mini-bar on the other.

There were mid-sized paintings hung here and there, and glass sliding doors led to balconies, one at the end of the living room wall and the other adjoining the kitchen. The other decorative touches were all high end as well; Esther found the place to suit Tom quite well.

"I see your tastes haven't at all changed," she noted, taking the scene.

"A man as good looking as myself has to travel in style, after all," replied Tom.

He was standing beside the couch's armrest, one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other resting on the nape of his neck, behind his head of black hair. His button shirt was open, exposing his lean torso and the golden chain he was wearing. When he let his arm fall, she could see the ring placed on his finger, one set with a semi-opaque grapefruit gem.

How long had it been? Three years? Yet seeing him now, it felt like their last meeting was only yesterday. Even so, it was good to see him again. And in a way, exciting; few could make her feel the way he did with a single glance.

"Take it off," he said, twisting his ring. "I want to see you."

She did just that, removing her necklace. The crystal amplified the field that transposed another self over her through mental will, making humans see as she wished them to see; but the field wasn't fully effective for those like Tom and Esther. Right now, two Toms were coexisting in the same space before her eyes, and he was seeing the same for her. But even without actively funnelling the projection through the gems, a residual image would remain for some time. She lowered her head to remove the necklace, and when she looked up, Tom had removed his ring, revealing his true self to her, as she to him.

Few things elicited the same sensation of seeing Tom like this. A sunset, perhaps, or the sight of a mountainous vista; whatever the case, there were few things quite like it.

"Come over here," he said, reaching into his pocket. "I've got something for you."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, and what would that be?"

He flashed a smirk, and with a beckoning motion of his finger, she was quite suddenly – and quite literally – pulled toward him, sliding across the floor. Surprised, she laughed all the way into Tom's arms. Their eyes met, and they shared a single kiss, long and soft, seeking to prolong it, to savour it.

She had missed him, to be sure, but not once had she ever felt truly away from him. For near or far away, they were as one, as all things are as one, in the end.

"What if I told you that this place has a mini-bar?" said Tom when they at last separated, walking away.

"There's a mini-bar?" she said in mock incredulity, following him straight to it.

Tom placed himself behind the counter of the bar space, while Esther took the stool at the end, leaning against the portion of wall that formed the enclosure to the bar. She then shrugged out of her jacket and dropped it on the adjacent stool, covering it.

"Qu'allez vous prendre ce soir, mademoiselle?" asked Moroe, accent impeccable.

Esther smiled; she loved the Language Game.

"Euh...hmm... Je prendrai bien un Margarita."

Tom went to work, taking what he needed from the stock provided in the shelves behind him. He made a show of doing most of it without his hands for her entertainment, playing the street magician. His mastery over his unique skill was always impressive to her, but she knew it was simply like breathing to him, just as insight into the minds of others, the talent she was born with, was just as natural.

A glass was presented to her, ice floating in the pool of hazy liquid, after which Tom made a drink of his own, at first intent on putting some bourbon whiskey to use, but opted for a White Russian instead when he noticed some Irish Cream stored on the middle of the three shelves.

"So, what have you been up to since we last met?" continued Moroe in his French.

"Still looking for the pieces the ZFT Captains have hidden," she answered. "It's tough work. They keep their secrets well."

"How many have you found?" asked Tom, Russian this time.

"Four. I actually found the last one just a few months back, with a little help from Weiss."

Tom went for some Japanese. "Sam Weiss, eh? I still have trouble believing how lucky that guy was."

She nodded contemplatively, taking another sip of the chill beverage. That Weiss befriended a man who would one day lead him to a potential Candidate was nothing short of miraculous. Without him, their undertaking would be nowhere as far along as currently was; in fact, it might not even have been possible, and despite Weiss insisting his find was a cosmic coincidence, they were all indebted to him nonetheless.

When Tom resumed in a tongue that had never once graced the mouths of humans, Esther perked up.

"You know, speaking of Weiss, I spoke with his brother recently. It seems that his crew had a run-in with Children of the Devasanja."

"Truly? What happened?" She stared at her drink, thinking of the Devarajna's mythical nemesis; even less was known about him than of the Overseer.

"Nothing much, apparently. He told me the reason they showed up was because they caught the signal from the broken component they were hauling out of the ground, and came to investigate. One of his people started a fight when he thought they were going to attack, but Sylvan stopped things before they could go bad. He was able to get them to leave, and said they were surprisingly polite. And his crew though the Guardians were actually Witnesses. Funny, eh?"

"Want to know something funnier?" asked Esther. "I met a Witness not six weeks past."

Tom chuckled, as one could only chuckle when presented with incredulous information. "How grand."

"Mister Reed, he called himself," she explained. "It's the one you met at that bathroom that one time. The one you described as _troubled_."

"Ah yes, the _troubled one_," he said, exhaling after the last of his drink. "I remember him well. His friends on the subway were troubled folk, too. And they used the same style of generic names. Do you think it's possible those are_ actually_ their real names?"

"I'd say they're as real as Tom Moroe and Esther Dei," replied Esther.

A mutual smile took them at the mention of their names. Those living abroad had to adopt new identities every ten years for subterfuge's sake, each time changing their names to ones of their choosing. She remembered the many names the one called Tom had held; Balthazar had been one of her favourites, simply for its flamboyance, which was why she had chosen Esmeralda to match. Their current names were probably the best ones yet, however, purely because of the puns.

"What do you think it means, Tom?" said Esther. "That we're seeing agents of the Angels of Light and Shadow pop all of a sudden? Only a handful of reported sightings have been documented by our people in the past, and no one alive has ever seen one, and yet here it is that we have close encounters with Witness and Guardian alike in the space of a few months."

"I'm actually surprised it took so long for one of us to bump into them," said Tom. "Though I always knew that their paths and ours would converge when the end drew near. Or the beginning, I should say. Whatever the case, I don't think we've seen the last of either of them."

Tom prepared another round of drinks. Upon receiving hers, Esther leaned her head against the wall, a groan-sigh lovechild escaping her throat. "Enough about work," she said. "I thought you brought me here to unwind and catch up."

"Fair enough," was Tom's reply. "Hey, guess who I talked to not two days ago?"

With that as their launching pad, they dove into a mother-tongue conversation that spanned the ensuing two hours, speaking of meetings with old friends and new, of current and recent news in both worlds, of the state of things back home, of movies they've recently seen, or foods they've tried; by the end, few gaps remained in their respective three-year sojourns.

Young, they sought to see the worlds beyond the homeland, travelling far and wide in heed to wanderlust, but when they were chosen to play a part in their great undertaking, they made it a point to reunite every now and then, and they would talk of everything and nothing; even at their age, they were always finding new things to discuss. But even talking was simply icing. The simple act of being with one another, of sharing the same space and enjoying the other's presence, elicited a certain serenity in their beings like so few things could, and many a time had they spent the better part of a day at each other's side in silence.

It was this same silence that filled the suite now, Tom leading Esther down the hall, the drinks having long ago started to influence their idea of unity. In the master bedroom, their bodies became as one, their every touch guided by a raw desire rooted in three-year abstinence, one tempered by a sensuality born of a deep bond deepening even further. It was in the middle of the night when their mutual longing had been fully satiated, tangled in the bed sheets and each other, and in what could never possibly become unsatisfying, they basked in their shared presences, vessels to a peace simple and profound.

"Do you think we will succeed?" asked Esther, her head resting on his rising and falling chest, listening to him breathe. "Do you think we will truly be able to make things as they should be?"

"You worry too much, Driss," assured Tom. "We've come so far, and have so little left to go. Everything will be in its right place." When she looked up to him, they brought their heads together, closing their eyes. "The new world will soon be upon us, and when it does, Mankind's Dream will come to an end.


	25. Chapter 24: Party Crashers, Part 1

_A/N: So, it's been about two months on the dot since my last update. The reason being is that I've been stuck on Chapters 24-25 for some time. I've been working on this two-parter on and off for the past two months, and have only now finally (finally!) broken through and completed the damn things.  
_

_To make up for the lack of updates, I will be posting three chapters. First, we have the two-part Liberation Front extravaganza, and then the last Kenneth-centric of The Coming War. After that, there will be two more chapters, which I will post in the near future, thus bringing this story to a long-overdue close.  
_

_A quick recap of where we were last time on PTS III:_

_-The Boston and Manhattan branches of the Liberation Front have joined forces and are planning future operations.  
-Romulus and Remus have disappeared, and Walter and his team must scramble to find them.  
-Isen has vanished from Für Immer; unbeknownst to Mercedony, he was taken away by the Guardians.  
_

_The next two Liberation Front chapters are enormous. Also, they were hard as hell to write; I can't make any promises as to their quality, but I hope that they will nonetheless prove to be decent to good. _

_With that, I will leave you to your reading. ;)_

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Chapter 24: Party Crashers, Part 1

"So, the craziest thing happened to me yesterday," said Spock as he drove the Oldsmobile down the Interstate, tailing the rest of the Liberation Front. "I was at my apartment when these two FBI agents show up unannounced at my doorstep. Well, only the lady was FBI; once inside, the other guy reveals himself as a bona fide Truth-Seeker, so I let them have their say. Anyway, remember when we first went to New York at the start of Spring Break and I talked about that combustion case in Budapest?"

Crow looked over to the driver. "I think so. The William Bell thing, right?"

"Yeah. Thing is, they were interested in that _very same_ combustion case, and came looking for me after they stumbled on Galaxy Truth. They wanted to know what the deal was, so I shared with them what I knew about Massive Dynamic's involvement with the incident, and my theory that maybe these test subjects are supersoldiers being readied for defense against Romulan invasion."

"How'd they take it?" asked Crow.

"They kind of left in a hurry, actually. I guess the truth might have been a bit overwhelming for them. Still, it's kind of weird, right? I was talking to you about it, then two weeks later, these guys show up. Why would an American FBI Agent and her civilian friend be so interested in an incident that happened in Hungary over three weeks ago? Makes you wonder what's going on."

"Why'd they come to see _you_, though?" The question caused Spock to burrow his brows. "I mean, you'd expect the FBI to be all over things like this with their resources, especially for an international incident like that Budapest thing. So they must be in over their heads if the only lead they can find is a conspiracy website."

"I prefer to call it a _truth_ website, thank you very much," corrected Spock, mildly annoyed. "Otherwise, I would have named it _Galaxy Conspiracy_. Heh. But you're right, Crow. If they're having a hard time dealing with these events, then it's probably not a good sign. But then again, they don't know what _we_ know."

The pair fell into silence, the radio relating the progression of the global recession. Did the American government know of the First Wave? If they did, they were either keeping a tight lid on the matter, or were unaware of the true breadth of the problem. Either way, they clearly haven't been able to do much about it, seeing as the First Wave had been around for the past two decades and was still going strong. With any luck, the Liberation Front would be able to do what the government could not, circumventing bureaucracy and politics and even the Law itself to deal with the problem head-on.

During the closing weekend of Spring Break, the two Fronts – renaming themselves the Boston Front and the Manhattan Front for ease of reference – had pooled their resources, knowledge, and skill sets, with every single member being up to date on all their past and present activities by Sunday afternoon. Now knowing what they were dealing with – and perhaps more importantly, what they could actually _do_ about it – they were in an excellent position to respond to new developments as they appeared. But they had not found anything worth investigating by the time the Bostonian crew had to depart, so they made sure to remain vigilant until something came up.

Thankfully, something _had_ come up, and sooner than anyone had anticipated.

As The Guy had recounted to Crow via email, Old Roger appeared at their clandestine workshop headquarters with a possible lead. Seeing a Shapeshifter taking someone's face, the vagabond had followed it to a meatpacking plant in Queens. After keeping a close eye on the place, he saw transport trucks delivering suspicious cargo into the building, prompting him to alert the Manhattan Front.

From there, Source and Cazador had gone out to survey the scene. After school, Source had rigged a camera to an R/C helicopter, using the remote control to manoeuvre it around the site in anonymous aerial recon; the footage was forwarded to all members later that Wednesday. This footage, in addition to blueprints of the plant and maps of the underlying sewer tunnel, was what allowed the two Fronts to plan their approach by internet correspondence over the ensuing two nights, from the evening to the early hours of the morning.

And now, on the following Friday, a week after having first encountered the Manhattan Front, their Boston counterparts were rolling back down the Interstate to reach New York once more, conspiring to infiltrate the meatpacking plant and suspected Shapeshifter hangout.

_Should be fun._

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

The team arrived at the workshop just as the sky was beginning to blush. Ever-taciturn Cazador was stationed at the door to grant them access, and Crow found Guy's people already assembled down below, dining on some takeout so as to fill themselves before the coming rush. Crow's team growing peckish at the sight of food after their long trip, Adept and Spock were dispatched on a food run for the Boston Front. In the meantime, Crow and Guy reviewed their preparations and assessed what tools and weaponry they had at their disposal. Having not gained access to the insides of the actual site, they didn't know what awaited them, and so had decided to prepare themselves for any situation.

After the fast food buffet was brought to the group, Crow and Guy walked everyone through their intended approach from beginning to end, a process that took a little less than ten minutes.

"That about covers it," announced Crow. "Does everyone know what they're supposed to do?"

All present nodded in acquiescence.

"I don't know about you guys," said Axiom, "but I'm pumped for this."

"Yeah, man," agreed Source. "This is gonna be _epic_."

Dan found himself unnerved all of a sudden. So far, The Guy's crew had only made a handful of ambushes on small-scale Shapeshifter transactions and meetings, half of them ending in retreat. They were still rookies, still naive as to what the Shapeshifters were truly capable of, and looking at them now, Dan was amazed at how green he himself had once been.

"We can celebrate if and when we succeed," said Crow, his sudden stern disposition sobering the gang from their preliminary excitement. "And I do stress the _if_, because our victory is a long way from being assured."

"We have a pretty solid plan, though," offered Dryad. "If we play it right, we can take them all by surprise before they can even react. I'd say our chances aren't so bad."

"Plans are only guidelines at best," clarified Crow. "You can plan all you want, but something unexpected almost always comes up sooner or later. In my experience, things tend to devolve pretty quickly, so while we should stick to the plan, you're going to have to be prepared to improvise."

"Anything else we should know?" asked Starseed.

They all turned to him, seeking the veteran's counsel. Crow saw great uncertainty in their eyes, subtly warping their features; he briefly regretted having killed their buzz, but they deserved to know what was ahead of them.

"What we're doing tonight will be extremely dangerous," started Crow. "At any moment, you could get seriously hurt, or worse. Take a look around at the people surrounding you; this could be the last time you ever see any of them alive." He paused to let the gravity of his words seep to the marrow. "You can be afraid, or have doubts, but don't let these things overpower you. Make them work _for_ you instead, fuelling your vigilance, keeping you on your toes. Everyone needs to be at the top of their game, and everyone needs to work as a unit. Keep cool, be prepared, and you'll be gold."

"If anyone wishes to bow out of this, do so now, and without fear of being judged," added The Guy.

Only faces of resolution came in answer to Guy's own frozen smile.

"Excellent," said Spock, securing his aluminum-lined black beanie. "We'd better get a move on, then."

Everyone else proceeded to don their aluminum-lined caps, the definitive Liberation Front accessory, The Guy already wearing his beneath his black hood. They were all dressed in dark clothes, though not in the full-on black attire two thirds of the Boston crew had worn in the Titan mission. The assembled team then made some final checks, verifying their weaponry and ensuring their communication devices and all other gadgets were operating smoothly.

It was strange, this time around. Crow still experienced that apprehension stemming from uncertainty, but there was no self-doubt whatsoever, which was a rather liberating feeling. He was somewhat concerned over how The Guy's team would handle things, but with their joint leadership, Crow felt confident in their odds.

As the team was filing to depart, Crow, reflecting on the safety of his team and the fatal risks they would be facing, bestowed one last piece of advice to the whole, something he had learned the hard way.

"One last thing, guys. Stick together. And whatever you do, don't leave anyone behind."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

"Tell us what you see," asked The Guy.

Adept scanned the three-story facility's southern face with her night-vision binoculars.

"We got two guys posted at the doors," she said, still peering. "I can see a couple more down right, near the corner."

"Right," replied the team captain. "We'll wait for Enigma's team to take care of the outliers. If they're quiet, the two by the door should remain unaware of the disappearance of the others."

The quartet waited in silence from the edges of the parking lot, crouching behind a low brick separation where wiry shrubs were growing. Soon enough, Adept saw the two figures on the end drop like flies, their bodies carried away by four figures to less conspicuous locations.

"They got 'em," relayed Adept. "The coast is clear."

"Source. Polaris. Is it ready?"

Polaris made a few final adjustments. "Good to go."

She patted Source on the back, prompting him to wield his controller. Under the precise movements of his thumbs, the R/C car made a large arc around the parking lot, Source poking his head out the edge of the brick separation to see where he was directing it.

The sentries responded to the strange noise coming up alongside the building, surprised to see a small toy car rolling up to them, stopping just before the pair. Suspicious, they scanned their environs, but saw no hint of the one orchestrating the toy's movements. More curious still was the cylindrical object affixed to the car's top. Sharing cautionary glances, the two came in closer to investigate.

Just as one was reaching to pick it up, there was a sudden blinding flash, overwhelming their bionic eyes.

Wordless, the hidden four emerged from the shadows, gliding across the pavement, their window of opportunity already growing small. Taking advantage of the disorientation of their foes, the four ganged up on them; however, the blast had not succeeded in deafening them, and they turned in the direction of oncoming footsteps, arms outstretched, assessing their invisible threats.

One of the Hybrids saw a blurry high school kid in his field of vision, and reached for his gun, but there was a pat on his shoulder. He turned around, only to see a Guy Fawkes mask and an upright finger being held at the grinning face, bidding him silent. Before he could react, the business end of a switchblade introduced itself through his lower jaw and up into his tri-holed palate.

The second Hybrid was dealt with just as swiftly. After ducking to evade a wide blow, Adept kicked at his shins, but when he wouldn't buckle, she brought her boot to his crotch instead, forcing him to his knees with a grunt, at which point a waiting Polaris secured his head with her arms from behind and thrust with all her might, snapping his neck. His subsequent spazzing revealed that neck-snapping was not as fatal to Hybrids as it was to humans, so an additional stabbing between the eyes was necessary to cease all function.

The sentries dealt with, the four took a brief moment to recuperate. Source knelt to examine his toy car; the impact of Rebecca's homemade flash bang had buckled the top of the vehicle, but not too badly.

"Glad that thing worked," said Adept.

"Me too," said Polaris, decoupling the bomb's husk from the car's fuselage to examine it. "There's room for improvement, but I'm pleased with the results. Shame I only had time to make one. "

Listening in, The Guy wiped the mercury off his blade on the edges of his shirt; he perked up, however, when Adept's face began to blanch. In the blink of an eye, The Guy whipped around and launched his blade, which lodged itself between the eyes of the surprise Hybrid that was aiming his gun at them. The body slumped to the floor, dropping its weapon.

"That was sick, dude!" exclaimed Source.

The Guy walked over to the body to retrieve his knife. Nonchalant, he twirled it about his fingers in dextrous acrobatics before catching it and sheathing it in his front pocket.

"It was nothing special, I assure you," said the masked man. "We can't be staying idle. Let's get inside before more unwanted guests accost us."

Polaris nodded and went to work, crouching before the locked door and putting the instructions of her grey-goatee'd mentor to practice. Her efforts successful, the four gained entry into the plant, and closing the door behind them with care, they immediately drew their weapons, looking for threats down either end of the corridor they found themselves in the middle of.

"You remember the way?" asked Adept.

"Certainly," said The Guy. "Stick to the shadows, comrades. The others will be waiting for us behind the scenes. The show is about to begin."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Enigma and Druid lugged one of the heavier-than-they-seemed Shapeshifter corpses out by a dumpster, carrying it by the arms and legs; Axiom and Starseed were close behind with the second body, dropping it near the first, keeping both out of obvious sight.

"Stairs are out back," said Enigma, the deed done. "Stay close."

Enigma walked close to the wall, followed by Druid, hunting rifle slung over his back, with Axiom and Starseed close behind.

"You almost got had back there, Star," said Axiom in a hushed voice.

"Sorry about that," replied Starseed, recalling her prior hesitation. "I'm just not too... comfortable with killing. Or violence in general."

"I ain't either. But if you ain't down with getting your hands dirty, then why'd you join the Front in the first place?"

"Because I want to do my part. Crow said they want to destroy the world, right? We have to do _something_. Besides, I'm okay with self-defense and all. It's just that they look so... human, you know? I mean, can they feel pain, or fear? Do you think they actually have consciousness?"

"I don't know," said Axiom. "But it's pretty crazy, right? I've been talking with Source about it all week. The shifters are pretty much cyborgs with artificial intelligences. Source said they could probably pass a Turing SAT, let alone a Test. But they're part organic, too. They bring up a bunch of interesting philosophical questions. Shame we're gonna have to kill them all –"

A distant bang resounded, causing the quartet to freeze.

"Sounds like Becca's flash bang," said Druid, scratching his scruffy beard. "Let's keep a move on."

They sped onward, breath clouding in the night, contouring the perimeter of the building to reach its rear face. Tracing the mental snapshot of the building's blueprints, Enigma led the team toward their desired access point – a flight of steps leading to a second floor entry – but he stopped them when, looking around the corner, he saw that someone was stationed at the door at the top of the staircase.

"There's a guy up there," he informed his team.

"You think we can risk using our guns?" hushed Druid. "I'm a decent shot, so I could nail the critter from here."

"That thing's loud as hell, though," countered Axiom. "We can't be drawing attention to ourselves before we even get inside."

"I... I have an idea," said Starseed. "I'll deal with him."

"You sure?" asked Enigma, reading her nervosity.

"Yes," she said, determined. "Trust me on this. And be ready."

"You be careful, then," said Axiom.

Taking in a long breath, Starseed psyched herself up and turned around the corner.

_I can do this. _

The burly man at the summit cocked his head at the sound of feet ascending the metal steps. Seeing the woman with a black vest, a backpack, and braided hair wrapped into a ponytail, he reached for his weapon, but the guest raised her hands.

"Whoah! Relax, man. I'm just here to take over watch."

At that, the Hybrid put himself at ease, but still eyed his apparent replacement with distrust.

"How come I haven't seen your face around here before?" he asked, suspicious. "And what are you doing outside, anyway?"

"Came here straight from my incubation pod not two hours ago," said the girl. "Got me this face on the way over. You like it? The dreads are kind of nice." She ran her hand over the coils that covered her scalp. "Anyway, I got lost on the way here, and ended up taking the wrong door outside, so I made my way around."

The Hybrid seemed appeased, though still puzzled. "It's not like Bradley to not phone in. Why wasn't I told you were coming up?"

"Gottfried needed an extra pair of hands, so Bradley just told me to come over here," she explained. "So you're free to go, if you want."

"Good," said the Hybrid, rubbing his hands. "I'm freezing my ass off out here." She allowed him to squeeze past, though he turned around at the top of the flight. "What's with the backpack?"

"This girl was carrying a bunch of neat stuff in here, so I decided to keep it. You'll never believe what I found. Here, check this out."

She swung her backpack off her arms, holding it in front of her. Curious, the Hybrid watched on as she unzipped the bag and began to rummage inside, not expecting that the black rectangular object she swiftly took out would deliver a strong electric surge when she brought it down on the side of his neck.

Seizing, the Hybrid lost balance and tumbled violently all the way down the steps. Attracted by the sudden brouhaha, the rest of the team emerged from hiding, seeing the Hybrid being delivered to their level. On the ground, the Shapeshifter was still twitching, struggling to get up, though Axiom delivered a mighty downward blow of his crowbar to put the poor fellow out of his misery.

The trio looked up to see Starseed standing midway down the stairs, pressing the button on her taser to flash the electric arc.

"Good thing I didn't hesitate this time," she declared, feeling almost giddy that she had proven herself braver than she had originally held. "Ladies first."

The menfolk obliged, impressed with Starseed's handling of the situation.

"Remind me to not guard doors when you're around," said Axiom as he passed, chuckling to himself.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

"You know," hushed Spock, "I'm actually starting to become fond of sewer tunnels."

The four flashlight beams swept the abyssal stone veins of the city the quartet was venturing through.

"If they could install thermostats down here, I'd be right with you," said Crow, his breath frosting in the cool air.

"And spray some goddamned Febreeze," complained Dryad. "This place has a rank after-smell."

Cazador, at the tail of the group, said nothing, holding his aluminum bat tight in his left hand.

They had begun their trek a few blocks away from the meatpacking plant. They had not been able to find schematics of the old, closed down sewer tunnels they had graced a week prior, nor track down Old Roger as a guide, so they had to resort to more recent tunnels, entering via a manhole cover they had pried up with a crowbar.

It was a simple enough plan. The Guy, with Polaris, Adept, and Source, would enter on ground level. Enigma would lead Axiom, Starseed, and Druid to the second floor, entering from above. And Crow, alongside Spock, Dryad, and Cazador, would emerge within the plant from below.

Without knowing what lied at the heart of the establishment, Crow and Guy had thought this to be the most prudent approach, swarming the plant from all access points like smoked-out cockroaches. Or perhaps more aptly, like intelligent cockroaches who would wait for the right moment to strike. Crow knew cockroaches were incredibly resilient, capable of surviving a nuclear holocaust, or live without their heads for weeks, but could they survive being flattened under a Shapeshifter's shoe?

If they were nimble to avoid getting stomped on, then perhaps they would never need to entertain the question further.

"Alright, uh..."

Crow alternated his flashlight between the right and left passages that stood before them, the group coming to a halt.

"Don't tell you forgot the way," raised Dryad, illuminating the dark behind them, chasing away imagined terrors.

"No, I got this," assured their leader. "Okay... we went left, then left...then right..."

As he retraced the path he had memorized from the maps, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Crow turned his head to see Cazador angle his beam to the right-hand passage.

"You sure it's that way?" asked Crow.

In answer, Cazador stared at him at a brief moment with his cutting eyes and dark brows, then started walking down the route he had chosen. Dryad was next to follow seconds later, and Spock just after, who offered Crow a shrug before heading off.

"Come to think of it, it _was_ the right corridor," said Crow to himself, placing his trust in their silent guide.

Crow swiftly caught up to his comrades, forming a tight formation as they saw the entrance to the plant's basement level, indicating they were directly beneath the site. Spock picked the lock with ease, aided by their flashlights, and they gained access to the lower level of the plant, peeking out the stairwell with armaments loaded.

Thankfully, they were alone in that room. Fluorescent lighting allowed them to see the closed circuitry panels regulating power to the site; an air-conditioning unit and ventilation equipment were also to be found. Crow went up to the entrance, pressing his ear against the cool door to see if there might be anyone in the vicinity, but he couldn't hear much with the humming of the cellar's machinery.

He turned to see the group double-checking their ammunition and firearms.

"Only use those if you absolutely have to," said Crow as he checked his own pistol. "We can't blow our cover until we're all in position. Stick to handheld weapons if we come across Hybrids."

With that, they put away their arms, Dryad and Spock summoning hunting knives and Cazador picking up his baseball bat.

"You know, I'd really prefer a _bat'leth_," said Spock, pivoting the comparatively smaller hunting knife he was holding, loaned to him by Druid. "But I guess this'll do."

"Alright," said Crow. "Stay in formation. You all know what to do."

The four gathered to the door, crouching on either side. Slowly, Dryad opened the door just a crack, and Spock, pressed against the wall, looked down the corridor. Then he took out a small compact mirror, checking the other end of the corridor otherwise invisible to his line of sight.

"All clear," hushed Spock.

Crow nodded and tapped his partner on the shoulder. Spock moved out, stepping lithely, going to the next corner. Dryad placed herself at Spock's prior position, using a mirror of her own to keep an eye on the opposing path. In moments, Spock gave the all clear, raising his hand. Walking more or less backwards, Cazador went to join Spock first, then Crow, then Dryad, walking backwards and facing down the corridor, making sure they were ready in case someone decided to show up.

Once assembled at the corner, they repeated the same process, Spock going on ahead to scout, then leading the crew along when it was safe to proceed. Each movement was deliberate, carrying out the sequence they had rehearsed so many times in their heads since the inception of their plan, and each member of the squadron played their role with finesse, the process becoming automatic, second-natured.

Their procession was broken only to wait for Hybrids to pass, though there had been on close call on the ground level. It had come as quite the surprise, as the team quite abruptly came face to face with a Hybrid just as they were about to turn around the corner. Before anyone could react, Cazador gripped the Shapeshifter by the throat and manhandled him through the nearby double doors; what followed were sounds of metal hitting _something_, a series of repeated blows muffled from within the room.

They heard Caz's aluminum bat drop to the floor, prelude to moments of silence. But just as Spock was about to enter to check on their partner's status, he emerged, wielding a bat whose tip only had faint traces of red and silver, most having been wiped off. Caz stood silent, breathing a bit more heavily from his expenditure; no one said a thing, and no one really wanted to, given the man's rather intimidating stage presence. As Crow resumed position, the rest falling in line, he found himself thankful that The Hunter was on their side.

Now came the dangerous part. They were nearing the largest room in the plant, a fat L-shaped area with a high ceiling, which they had determined was the primary meat processing and packaging space. If the Shapeshifters were to be stockpiling goods from delivery trucks, there was no candidate more suitable for storage.

It would also entail the possibility – no, probability – of high ingoing and outgoing traffic for that space. And to get a good view, Crow's team would need to place themselves near the mouth of one of the corridors branching out from the area. The Guy's team would be in a similar predicament, being on the ground level, though Enigma's team would have more cover, observing the scene from walkways overlooking the site. To complicate matters, they weren't quite sure what they would be finding. Their actual plan was mostly devised to get them in position; the rest would be improvisation.

Having cardboard boxes or dirty magazines on hand would certainly have made sneaking about far easier, but moving about proved for the most part a simple exercise in alertness and discipline. Besides, they could start hearing the commotion going on in the main packing area, so the majority of the Hybrids must be busy working on their arts and crafts, accounting for the lack of non-humans in these corridors.

The four crouched down as they reached the Delta Point, the label given to the ground level position that was the ultimate destination for Crow's group. The way to their right bled straight into the packing area, where the increase in sound forced them to speak up.

"Pass me your compact," asked their team captain.

Spock obliged, and Crow secured it into his palm.

"You guys stay here," he said. "I'll go take a quick peek."

They nodded, and Crow went ahead, hugging the wall as he crept to corridor's end. Kneeling, he inched out his compact mirror, hoping the light wouldn't reflect too badly off of it and cause someone to take notice. Through it, he made out many Shapeshifters walking about, but no one close to Crow's position. Seeing this, he allowed his head to poke out ever so slightly, giving him a clearer view that his small and wobbly mirror could not.

It was indeed a huge chamber. Delta point was near the end of a lengthy rectangular area; at this end, there were specialized stations, which Crow surmised were for the preparation of carcasses for further refined cuts. The area extended down the right, where the rows of meatpacking stations were to be found. In the blueprints the Liberation Front had analyzed, there was a central lane running through the hall. There would be six meatpacking stations on either side of the lane, tables set perpendicular to the hall's length; after these six, there would be a break, forming an intersection with the central lane, after which an additional block of stations were placed, amounting to twenty-four stations total. The room would then curve to the right beyond Crow's sight, where twelve more stations were found, bumping the total to thirty-six.

Crow could now see that reality did not fully conform to their maps. Every other table had been removed by the Hybrids, making space for what appeared to be metallic rings on the ground, three placed side by side where the absent tables should be. On the outer rims of the main packing stations was more space, including stairs to metallic walkways that contoured the site on either side of the hall; beneath these catwalks, there were crates, which Crow presumed contained the components for the rings, with some Hybrids talking them out and carrying them around either by hand or by trolley.

Other sensory details came into Dan's awareness; the ambient sounds of Hybrid voices and metal clangs and background buzz, the fluorescent lighting overhead, the cool air of the place. Most of all were the various Hybrids roaming about, the majority hunkered down in teams to set up the rings. They were only clustered around the intersection, however; it seemed they were laying down the rings starting on one end, then progressing linearly to the other. A tentative estimate placed the number of Hybrids currently present at around fifteen, with perhaps twelve rings complete, and twelve more at various stages of completion.

The Guy's team was camping out around the bend, as they would storm from one end, and Crow's group the other, sandwiching the Hybrids; Enigma's team was intended to be directly above them, granting overhead support to their ambush from the second-floor walkways. Though of course, they couldn't brazenly engage the enemy without knowing more, and so Crow focused his sights, trying to think of how best to make their approach –

_ Jesus!_

Spock, Dryad, and Cazador tensed at seeing Crow rejoin them in a hurry.

"What's going on?" hushed Dryad.

"It's Gottfried," he said. "He's here."

Spock and Dryad were aghast, while Cazador grew even grimmer, if such a thing were possible.

"You sure?" asked Spock.

"Definitely. They're assembling these metal rings on the ground. I think those might the Yggdrasil Seed receptacles we heard him talk about back in our sewer tunnel recon mission with Old Roger."

With quick mental calculations, Crow deduced that given the layout the Hybrids were working with, there would be fifty-four receptacles in total by the time they finished laying them out.

"So we hit the jackpot?" asked Dryad.

"Yeah. Now we have to contact the others."

Crow removed his backpack and took out the radio transceiver. Putting down the volume a bit, he made sure he was attuned to the correct frequency before speaking.

"Guy, this is Crow. Do you read?" A silence followed, and he tried again. "Do you read?"

"I read, Crow," stated the voice on the other end.

"Are you in position yet?"

"We've arrived at Alpha Point safe and sound."

"Enigma here," came a third party. "We're up on Beta Point."

"Good," said Crow. "Listen up, guys. Gottfried is here. I think they're busy setting up an Yggdrasil site."

"I think I see him," replied Enigma. "Are those metal rings supposed to be the Seed receptacles?"

"It certainly appears to be the case," noted The Guy. "How do we proceed?"

Crow held the transceiver firm, staring to the floor, with his team looking in nervously.

"Crow?"

"Here's what we're going to do," replied their leader. "I'm going to walk out there."

"What?" blurted Dryad.

"Shapeshifters look just like us," said Crow, "and so we look just like them. If I walk out there and act cool, they shouldn't suspect anything, at least not at first." He paused, recalling the success of the ruse he had pulled off once before with the late Gary Saunders. "When Gottfried comes near, I'll walk out and tail him. When I get close, I'll draw and take him out. The gunshot will be your cue to come out and start firing, taking advantage of the confusion."

"That sounds like a game of timing," noted Guy over the com. "I imagine you want us to keep an eye on your movements and burst out just as you are in position."

"Exactly. When I'm near him, you should already be starting to come out. When I take out Gottfried, you'll need to cover me, because I'll be out in the open."

"This is high-risk, man," relayed Enigma. "You sure you're up for it?"

"There isn't any safe way to approach this, but it's our best shot to take them by surprise. And if we take out Gottfried first, it'll add to the confusion. Any objections?" The ensuing lack of response from the Alpha, Beta, or Delta Point teams encouraged Dan to continue. "Enigma, Guy, standby. I'm getting into position."

Crow led his three partners to the edge of the corridor leading to the main Yggdrasil site.

"We'll stay here," said Spock.

"Keep an eye on me," said Crow, looking back. "When you see me get close to him, I want you to start walking out calm and slow with your weapons at the ready. After you see me take out my gun, get ready to start taking out the rest of the Shapeshifters. Enigma, Guy; on my signal, I'll start walking out, so get ready."

"Copy that," replied Enigma.

"We're in place," assured The Guy.

"Standby," finished Crow.

He braced himself, first using the mirror to get a preview of the activity, then peering out to track Gottfried. The First Wave Commander was strutting about, overseeing the progress on the Yggdrasil Seed receptacles, outlining where adjustments needed to be made to his underlings. Crow observed him for several minutes, trying to see if there was a pattern, and indeed there was; Gottfried was making a counter-clockwise circuit, coming to Crow's direction via the central lane, then contouring the packing stations and receptacle clusters on the side closer to the Liberation Front, going down the way until he reached the intersection to begin his circuit anew.

It would simply be a matter of waiting until Gottfried began another lap to start falling in line behind him.

"Get ready guys," said Crow into the radio.

He watched Gottfried stroll, monitoring the activities of his cohorts with an observant eye; he stopped to warn a few of his men to be careful in the handling of sensitive equipment from the crates. Time seemed to slow down for Crow as he watched Gottfried making the rotation along his circuit, and the leader of the Liberation Front tensed himself.

"...Now!"

Having given the signal on the transceiver, Crow sheathed the transceiver and walked out into plain view.

No one batted a lash at the man who had emerged from the corridor; after all, everyone had their place here.

And so did Crow walk with a confident stride, seeking to exude an air of purpose and direction, while not seeming too focused on Gottfried. The key was to make it seem as though Dan had a reason to be there, to look as though he knew what the hell he was doing. That's how_ they_ did it, right?

When Gottfried stopped to make note of a problem a team was having on one receptacle, Crow halted to tie his shoe, that classic maneuver he was forced to execute to make his tailing of Gottfried as inconspicuous as he could manage. Down here, he chanced a glance further down, seeing the edge of The Guy's black hood as he watched from around the corner. After Gottfried resumed his path, Crow waited a few steps until he redressed himself and followed once more.

As he did, he looked around absently at those working nearby, never meeting their eyes, keeping his face – a face that wasn't supposed to be his own – cool and blank. His pace was deliberately faster than Gottfried's to bridge the gap, and gaining distance, his hand began to shift to his pocket. His pulse, his breathing, his rhythm; things like worry and fear were but distant concerns, his body almost on autopilot as he approached an unsuspecting Vincent Allen Gottfried.

He was close enough now to make the shot, and The Guy was already coming around the corner.

Dan began to draw his weapon.

The dread was beyond compare when someone realized what he was doing.

_Nonononono– _

Out of the corner of his eye, Crow saw someone reach for their own weapon. He had no choice but to turn and face the woman. Then she aimed away from Dan and to those who were flooding the scene behind him.

"Crow, watch out!" cried Dryad.

It was a slow-motion train wreck, with a Hybrid drawing their gun to aim at a human, then realizing that another human was aiming at them, with that human realizing they were being held up; a causal chain happening almost too fast for Crow to fully follow.

Spock, Dryad, and Caz came to a stop behind Crow, guns held tight. The Guy, Polaris, Source, and Adept stormed in from the other side, dividing the attention of the Hybrids. And Enigma, Axiom, and Starseed were running along the metal walkway that contoured the inner wall, trying to make their way to the staircase further down to reach their ground-level comrades, just as Druid remained atop to provide ranged assistance.

As they all slowly moved to get a better position, there was a small window, a fleeting opportunity, where one side could have caught the other off guard, getting in a few shots before everyone could manage to piece together what was going on. But it had all happened too fast, and now the window had closed, both groups locked on one another, both realizing that standing where they were, the risk was too great to just start blindly firing.

Gottfried, having seen The Guy's contingent move in, had stopped in his tracks. He turned around as his fellow Hybrids drew their guns one after the other, and a bemused grin stretched across his face at the sight of his old friend Daniel Thompson holding him at gunpoint.

All present remained still, keeping their firearms steady, eyes shifting in all directions, with only the man with the grey goatee daring to break the tense silence, embodying the collective mood with a single utterance.

"_Frak_!"

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: Part 2 to appear very shortly. :D_


	26. Chapter 25: Party Crashers, Part 2

Chapter 25: Party Crashers, Part 2

"Visiting me at work?" said Gottfried, hands in his pockets. "How thoughtful of you."

Only the First Wave Commander proved to be in a jesting mood. The rest – the twelve members of the Liberation Front and the fourteen other Hybrids – remained locked in stalemate, keeping their attention on those set in their sights, glancing periodically at their leaders as they bandied words.

"We were in the neighborhood," replied Crow, pistol held firm. "Thought we'd drop by."

"And I'm absolutely delighted that you've come, Daniel. I'm actually rather impressed that you found us."

"I have my ways."

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

Crow wanted to look back, to see how his comrades were holding up, but he didn't want to take his eyes off Gottfried for even a second. And besides, even if he were able to confer with his partners by eyesight alone, he had the sense that they were all thinking the same thing anyway.

_How the hell are we going to get out of this?_

Gottfried surveyed the scene he found himself in without hurry, as though it just then occurred to him what was going on.

"Looks like we've gotten ourselves in quite the snag," he said, scratching the back of his head. "If we're going to play this game, it's only fair that I participate too, right?" He began reaching for the back of his belt, and Crow tensed, causing Gottfried to pause. "Shoot if you like, Daniel. But you know what's going to happen if you do."

Crow gritted his teeth as Gottfried slowly drew his own pistol, cocked it, and held it before him with a single arm, assuming a sideways stance. They were all out in the open, weapons locked and loaded. If someone on the Liberation Front side fired first, they could catch a few Hybrids off guard, including Gottfried, but they would begin firing back almost immediately, and there was no way that some of Crow's people wouldn't drop; the same applied to the Hybrids in the event they went first.

Whoever made the opening move would be dropping sparks on gasoline, and the ensuing flames would ravage both sides. It was a mutually disadvantage situation, and Dan was at a loss as to how to proceed while maintaining the least casualties on his side as possible.

Gottfried sighed. "There's no easy way out of this for either of us, is there?"

"No," agreed Crow. "I guess there isn't."

The mortal man and the First-Generation Hybrid danced in place with their intertwined stares. What was Gottfried thinking behind those steely eyes of his? The Hybrid seemed rather amused by the entire situation, but Crow knew better to let himself be fooled by his human facade, and in so doing, Gottfried's smirk began to adopt a more predatory edge.

"Well," said Gottfried after some thought. "There is _one_ solution."

"What would that be?" asked Crow, starting to feel himself perspire from the tension.

"You walk away."

Crow would have cleaned out his ears if he weren't already gripping a gun. "_Walk away_?"

"You almost had me, Daniel," explained the Hybrid. "You were walking right behind me, ready to lodge a bullet in my brain, and no one was any more the wiser. And you had your friends waiting in the shadows to take advantage of the confusion that would have ensued. Of course, things didn't work out your way, but I continue to find your boldness admirable, and I'd rather not exert unnecessary force. So I'm willing to let you go unharmed. All you have to do is walk out of here and go home, while we continue our work here. You're free to try again another day, and we'll be waiting if you do, but that day just won't be this one."

The head of the Liberation Front narrowed his eyes. Did Gottfried really expect Crow to believe that the Hybrids would let them walk away scot-free? If he accepted the offer, what guarantee was there that they would be able to find Gottfried again? Finding him there at the meatpacking plant was purest coincidence, and finding him again would be impossible unless another chance breakthrough came their way.

But could they rest their hopes on chance alone when they knew what was at stake in this struggle for mankind's liberation? And what would his compatriots think of their leader if he accepted, or if he were to tell them that the offer was actually tempting?

"I can't blame you for being skeptical," said Gottfried. "But I do strive to be a man of my word. And everyone here you see answers to me. I tell them to shoot, they shoot. I tell them to stand down, they stand down. But I can't tell them to do that until you decide what you're going to do. What I _will _promise is that if you walk away right here, right now, without saying another word, your entire team can leave without fearing for your safety. So what will it be, Daniel?"

Crow's brows furrowed, feeling the collective weight of the eyes of all present centering on him, each gaze an added spotlight that made his indecision all the more apparent. What did he value more? Ensuring the safety of his friends, or making a dent in Gottfried's operation?

He suddenly realized that he was seething.

Gottfried no doubt expected Dan to keel over. You gave it your best shot, the Hybrid would say, but it just wasn't good enough. These are the big leagues; go big, or go home.

_ To hell with it. _

He steadied his guard.

"The night's still young, Gottfried," said Crow.

"That it is," replied the Hybrid. "Are you sure you want to do this, Daniel? There's a fair chance that not all of you will survive."

"Everyone at my side is more than willing to give their lives if it means stopping the three Waves." Crow didn't look back to see if his friends betrayed whatever fear they had _too_ much, but he hoped their faces sold his claim enough to support it. "Including me."

There was no doubt in his mind that every Hybrid that had ever existed was willing to sacrifice themselves for the advancement of their cause. The Liberation Front had to be just as willing if they were to become the equals of their adversaries.

For what good was standing for freedom if they were not willing to what was necessary to uphold it, including giving one's life? _Especially_ giving one's life?

This wasn't about any one of them anymore; this was bigger than them all, bigger than any one of their lives. It was about the continuing existence of all mankind, the thing which the three Waves and their unseen puppeteers desired to take away from them.

They had come too far, come too close, to back down. He refused to allow Gottfried to win this time.

"Glad to hear it," said Gottfried. They all steadied their aim, preparing for the inevitable. "Shall we flip a coin to see who goes first?" He smirked, and Dan could not help but do the same. Receiving no response, the Hybrid returned to a more neutral disposition. "We'll leave it to fate, then."

Silence fell, one charged with the static of adrenaline. One second passed. Another. For some reason, Crow began to think of the people he had met in his life. The Manhattan crew, led by The Guy; his own crew, whom he assembled with Spock and Watchdog; the Truth-Seekers he had met in New York during the recent Spring Break; friends and acquaintances in his adult life, of high school, of childhood, most of whom had disappeared from his life by now; that really cool scientist guy who sometimes used to babysit him when he was young; his mother Sheryl, whom he knew so well.

His father Roderick, whom he never knew at all.

He made his provisional goodbyes with all of them before readying his trigger finger.

_Here goes nothing. _

A Hybrid on the edge of their web was first to fire.

But not at them, Crow realized; and the Hybrid's shots did not stop the spiralling orb of blue-white energy to smack into him, knocking the Shapeshifter into the air. The black-clad men began flooding in from further down the great hall, positioning themselves on the other side of the area, using the meatpacking stations and support beams as cover, with more plasma bursts and old-fashioned bullets whizzing their way. As the previously unshakable standoff dissolved, Dan tried to gain his bearings, disbelieving the sight of a group he has seen before.

"Seriously?" he exclaimed, cock-blocked once again by Lenny and his ZFT squadrons.

But a plasma burst came his way and he was forced to roll to the side, joining his teammates to elude oncoming fire.

From behind a support beam, Gottfried distracted some ZFT thugs in the distance with his weapon, hitting one.

"We have a situation at the work site!" he yelled out into his walkie-talkie, summoning all additional personnel on the compound that were not already present to his location.

After putting away the transceiver, he then turned and leaped up to the walkway nearby in a display of inhuman power, grabbing the rail with his free hand, pulling himself up, then using the walkway's edge as a foothold to vault himself up and over. With his higher vantage point, Gottfried began picking at targets with greater ease, moving down the length of the hall to fire at the inrushing ZFT agents, using the control panel at walkway's bend for cover.

Crow and his team quickly went for cover behind the long tables that separated the rows of Seed receptacles, Crow and Dryad at the end of one, Cazador and Spock at the other.

"What's going on?" cried out Dryad.

"It's ZFT!" answered Crow. "They were there the last time we found Gottfried!"

Crouching, he surveyed the scene, assessing what they had to deal with. Enigma, Axiom, Druid, and Starseed had positioned themselves at the furthest packing tables, Druid's rifle roaring with every shot. Many of the Hybrids were to the right, focusing on ZFT, placed either at the stations or venturing further ahead at the supporting beams. The Guy and his group, however, were on the far end up ahead, separated by the Hybrid wedge.

When some of the Hybrids turned their attention to the Liberation Front, Crow urged Dryad onward. They joined Spock and Cazador, the four of them exchanging bullets with their three assailants a few stations down. When one of the Hybrids was felled and the other two ducked to reload, the quartet also hid out of sight to confer.

"What's the plan, Crow?" asked Spock, who looked out only to duck right back.

Crow checked his current magazine, taking stock of his ammunition. "I'm going over to Keane! I'll be back in a bit! Stick together!"

When the moment was opportune, he sped off, staying low as he joined Enigma and his gang.

"We need to reconnect with Guy's group," said Enigma just as Crow knelt at his side. "Get everyone together in one place."

"I was thinking the same thing," Crow shouted back. "I'll take someone from Beta team and one from Delta team, and we'll charge through to reach them."

"I'll go with you!" offered Axiom.

"Alright. I'll send the rest of Delta team your way, Keane. You guys keep formation in his area!"

"Got it!"

He tapped Enigma on the shoulder to signal his departure, then beckoned Axiom along with a tilt of the head. They moved swiftly, passing by the sets of receptacles along the way, firing back at whoever saw them moving. The heart of the battle was happening further up, with Hybrids massing to converge on the way ZFT came through, where many of the human agents were positioned.

When they reached the corridor Delta team had emerged from, Crow and Axiom ducked inside, and the former called out to his teammates further down the way; it took a few tries to get their attention, but Dryad soon noticed them, and she led Spock and Cazador to the safety of the passageway.

"There are too many Hybrids between us and The Guy," explained Crow, the external noise reduced by the enclosed space. "I'm going to go around and reach the other side to bring them back over here. Once everyone has regrouped, we'll have a better chance to get out of here in one piece. Caz, you remember the layout for this floor?"

The man nodded.

"Then you're coming with me and Axiom, so that we don't get lost. Spock, Dryad, I want you to go find Enigma's group and stay with them."

"Gotcha, Crow!" said Spock before approaching the egress leading back to the battlefield.

Dryad looked a bit more nervous, prompting Crow to put a hand on his shoulder. "You watch over him for me, alright?" he asked with a faint smile. That seemed to lift her spirits, and she rejoined Spock more readily after a brusque nod. After the two disappeared into the fray, Crow addressed his two partners. "Let's get moving."

Cazador went ahead, brandishing his aluminum bat in one hand and his pistol in the other. Crow was behind him, and Axiom acted as rear guard, walking more backwards than forward in case someone snuck up on them. They advanced at a brisk pace, lightly jogging through corridors and pausing momentarily at corners.

"Watch out!" said Axiom, and Crow and Caz looked behind to see Axiom take out one of the Hybrid reinforcements called in by Gottfried; Crow shot the other almost immediately after, and the coast clear, the trio resumed their trek.

It took a bit under two minutes before they set themselves on the path The Guy's team had taken to reach the other side of the main packaging area. Peering out, he saw Adept, Polaris, and Source gathered near the masked man, taking on both ZFT and the Hybrids. The three joined The Guy's gang at the counter, narrowly evading an energy bolt.

"They don't seem to know we're not Hybrids!" yelled Polaris.

"We'll deal with them later," said Crow. "We need to regroup with Enigma and the others –"

Glancing up, he caught Gottfried in his field of vision; the Hybrid was still on the metallic walkway running the length of the area's inner wall. He ducked into a corridor above, seeking shelter, and his gaze met Dan's below. As though a reflex, Crow shot at the First Wave Commander, forcing him to retreat.

_Damn it!_

"What is it?" asked Axiom, turning to investigate Crow's new target.

"It's Gottfried!" he replied. "I'm going after him!"

The Guy gripped his arm.

"Alone?" asked Guy, his voice somewhat muffled by his mask. "That's hardly sound. I will accompany you."

Crow paused. His ally's contention highlighted his impulsiveness; going after Gottfried on his own was indeed foolhardy. But there was no denying that Gottfried would need to be dealt with, and they might not get another opportunity to do so. It could be that the Hybrid would expect Crow to come after him, but there was also the chance that the Liberation Front agent could take Gottfried by surprise, and that was not something he was willing to pass up.

"No," said Crow. "You need to lead everyone to Enigma's position. Cazador and Axiom will show you the way back."

"Unfinished business?" queried The Guy.

"When I met Gottfried at Central Park, he said we should get together to talk again sometime," explained Crow over the fracas. "I figure now's as good a time as any. Keep them safe."

"May fortune smile upon you," replied the smiling masked man.

With The Guy's blessing, Crow departed, grateful that his fellow Front leader understood that there were some things one had to face alone. He didn't like the idea of leaving his friends to fend for themselves, recalling how that strategy once worked out for him; he also didn't like the idea of allowing Gottfried to make it out of there alive.

He hoped the Watchdog would have understood.

Crow went to the rear section of the area, finding the staircase leading to the walkway, and entered the obscure passage into which Gottfried had retreated, ready to confront the First-Generation Hybrid and make sure their third confrontation would be their last.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Crow was tempted to start yelling out 'Marco', but he had the sense that Gottfried wouldn't respond; he would have to rely on his ears, remaining alert for what audible cues the Hybrid would give for want of a 'Polo'.

In a corridor, he stopped and instinctively placed himself back against the wall. There it was; echoes of footsteps and the distant clap of double doors. Perhaps the First Wave Commander was returning to ground level and working his way around the main battle arena for tactical advantage.

Or, he could be leading Crow on.

There was only one way of knowing, of course, and Dan wasted no time in following suit, tracing Gottfried's steps. Hearing nothing in the stairwell, he descended, slowing as he neared the next set of double doors.

Navigating these lower levels, he detected a disturbance. The sound was so brief and faint that he was ready to dismiss it as the fruit of paranoia, but he wasn't able to let it go. Taking stock of his ammo, he advanced with grim determination into the unknown partitions of the meatpacking plant.

It was suddenly cooler, here. He turned the corner, pushing through plastic flaps to be faced with an unsettling sight. Rows of chilled carcasses, hung on hooks affixed to supporting rods crisscrossing the ceiling. Ham, beef, veal; the large two-part chamber housed scores of stripped and butchered livestock, suspended in refrigerated limbo until the day would come for further quartering, slicing, and packaging.

Did a sound actually originate from this area, or had Crow heard nothing but the whisperings of these silent corpses? He made certain to tread lightly, minimizing his sonic output. The atmosphere teetered on the foreboding, though Crow had seen more disturbing fare in his online paranormal indulgences; and for all the creepiness of the setting, it wasn't enough to stop him from salivating a bit at being surrounded by so much meat.

The Hybrids undoubtedly viewed humans as walking bags of meat, Crow thought, not unlike the animal cadavers hanging at his side once were; utterly disposable, they existed solely for the needs of the Shapeshifters, who would partake of human faces as humans did of steak and tenderloin.

The moment opportune, Gottfried chose to confirm Crow's theory, raising his pistol at the end of the row to Dan's left, firing at the only meat sack not currently hanging upside down on a hook. The Hybrid's shot planted itself in the haunch of a carcass adjacent to Crow just as the human turned, firing blindly down the lane. Gottfried evaded, moving to the right; Crow bridged the distance to the Hybrid's original position, but Gottfried was nowhere to be found.

Gritting his teeth, he stilled himself, realizing what a deplorable situation he had gotten himself into. He suddenly yearned for the open stalemate that had formed nearly fifteen minutes ago; at least back then, Gottfried was standing in plain sight.

"So you came for me." The Hybrid's voice resounded from further down the way, somewhere right of center. "I wasn't sure you would."

The enemy had given its position away, prompting Crow to proceed to the general direction of the voice's source. The silence wore on, however, and the previous hint was losing its usefulness with each passing second as Gottfried slithered about. Though not at all happy with it, Dan knew what he had to do.

"Of course I came," replied Crow. "What kind of friend would I be if I hadn't?"

In answering Gottfried, he had given away his own position, at least for the next few moments. And as Crow had expected, Gottfried offered a reply.

"That's one of the many things I admire in you, Daniel," he called. "I can always count on you."

This time, it seemed that Gottfried had moved along a curve to somewhere nearer to the heart of the chamber; the slight rustling of a carcass on its hook acted as a period to the Hybrid's words, Crow's adversary having inadvertently brushed up against it in passing. The rules of the game were simple; Crow would need to keep Gottfried talking if he was to maintain a general awareness of the Hybrid's movements, and in so doing, he would give away is own position every time.

He had gotten out of a mutually disadvantageous situation, only to enter another. Yet the stakes were still the same.

The winner would get to walk away. And the loser would join their hooked and hung audience as yet one more lifeless cadaver to be condemned to an eternity in refrigerated limbo.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Entropy, that rasping whisper that coaxes ordered systems toward disorder over time, from the microscopic to the macroscopic and everything in between – heated firefights in particular.

Five of the Liberation Front's full roster had been entrenched at the back, using the specialized stations as cover. Isaac Keane was coordinating their efforts, staying put and awaiting Crow to return with The Guy's contingent. Yet the minutes wore on, and there was no sign of them returning. Had something happened? He was tempted to call them on his transceiver, but he had never got the chance.

As it always did, it happened too fast. A couple of ZFT goons had reached the left-hand walkway and began raining bullets onto them, scattering the group. Druid and Starseed escaped through the back, retreating through plastic flaps to enter preceding segments of the slaughtering production line. Spock did a Superman dive off to the left, going beneath the walkway, and Enigma and Dryad went to the right, repositioning themselves around the stations for better defense.

Perhaps if they had been facing the walkway on the other side, they would have seen the Hybrid that had shot the ZFT agents, who fell over the railing despite Enigma and Dryad having not fired. They turned around to see the Hybrid as it also vaulted over the rail; whereas Dryad rolled to the side, Enigma was not so swift, being backhanded as soon as the Shapeshifter touched concrete, sending him sliding. When he rolled onto his back, the Hybrid was already falling, downed by Dryad. He could see that she wanted to rejoin him, but she came under fire, and retreated into the back entry, presumably to rejoin Druid and Starseed.

Smart girl, she was. But Keane was now lying on the floor away from cover, which was not nearly as smart.

He rose to a low crouch and made for the nearest iron pillar, taking stock of the situation. There seemed to be things going on down the length of the main packing area. If something unexpected had happened to Guy and Crow's teams, he would need to rejoin with them. But what about his own team? It only occurred to him then and there that he had failed Crow, who had told him to keep everyone together, to wait for them.

Too bad ZFT and the Shapeshifters weren't so patient.

Druid, Starseed, and Dryad had gone, but Spock had darted to the other side, and it wasn't apparent where he had run off to; his form was not readily apparent to Enigma when he chanced a peek out of his narrow vertical haven. It then dawned on him that he still had his transceiver; he tried it, but got no answer from either team captain, who must either have had their hands full, or something Enigma didn't want to think about.

As much as he hoped the others would keep their wits and stay safe, he was on his own, and he would have to keep his wits about him as well.

Setting himself a primary objective – traversing the packaging area to reach Alpha Team's position – and a secondary objective – taking out as many opponents as he could on the way there – then deciding to swap the priority of either objective, he braced himself and moved out, gun held straight ahead.

He proceeded at a brisk pace, trying to make for the corridor used by Delta Team and firing at those who spotted him to keep them busy. He then reached the passage, gaining momentary respite. But he went out soon after; he had allocated more memory to the second floor's layout than the one for the first, and wasn't going to risk getting lost trying to retrace Crow's path. Keane wondered if he might go back to the staircase and ascend the walkway to circumvent the battlefield on the upper floor, but the nearest stairwells were equidistant, and he was already moving toward one, so he decided to press forward.

_Spock!_

He saw his associate across the room a few rows down, sitting on the ground against a table as he reloaded. Though even as he spotted his friend, a black-capped ZFT agent acquainted himself to his peripheral vision. And, it seemed, the other agent grew aware of Enigma at the same time, both drawing out their weapons with single outstretched arms, standing off almost ten feet apart.

Enigma fired first, but the ZFT man was surprised to see he was still standing. Noticing that the apparent Hybrid's angle was off, he turned around to see another Hybrid slump the ground in permanent deactivation. He looked back to the now not-so-Hybrid and returned the favour, shooting at some Shapeshifter reinforcements emerging from the passage further back, driving them whence they came.

The two humans shared a single glance and leaped over the nearest packaging table for cover, an understanding forged in the heat of the moment. Neither would jump at the chance to call one another friend, but they were the enemies of their shared enemy, and as far as either was concerned, that was all they needed for the time being.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Dan ducked down as he evaded Gottfried's shots, bullets wounding cow meat instead of human.

"It would be a shame for the Liberation Front to lose so valiant a leader," spoke Gottfried's voice.

"I'd imagine losing a First Wave Commander would be just as bad," replied Crow some distance, kneeling momentarily. "How many of you are there, anyway?"

_Keep asking questions_, thought Dan, trying to control his breathing. _That should keep him talking._

The Hybrid laughed to himself. "I suppose you've earned that much. There were eight of us, in the beginning. Cold War babies. Over the years, we've been eliminated one by one."

Hearing Gottfried speak, Dan adjusted his course through the butchered labyrinth, seeking to get closer.

"A few years back," continued the Hybrid, "one of my brothers was put into indefinite stasis, leaving three. Then, just a few months ago, another was killed in action. Now there's just me and one other."

"The Cold War? You've been around longer than I thought."

"The First-Gens were sent here in the early seventies. I've been on this Side for almost forty years, now. I'll tell you one thing; it's pretty surreal looking in the mirror nowadays. I'm finally getting as old as I look."

Crow was definitely getting closer, given audible cues. He prepared himself for the next inevitable confrontation.

"Forty years, huh?" called out the human. "That's a pretty long time. Ever miss home?"

"From time to time," answered Gottfried. "My Second-Gen cousins are born directly into this world, and only a few have ever been extracted; the great majority have never seen their native world. But my First-Gen brothers and I were activated back home before being sent back here. I remember when our creators first showed us the outside world; I can still see it clearly to this day."

As the Hybrid rambled, a thought occurred to Crow, making him feel a bit dumb. He proceeded to bend down to the floor and scan underneath the cadavers for signs of Gottfried's legs, a far more efficient tracking method than relying solely on his ears.

"I look forward to going back one day, as do all Hybrids," said the Commander. "Though I have to say that I've grown fond of your world, Daniel. Do you know what I've come to appreciate the most?"

Dan continued to scan, but saw no boots walking about, much to his puzzlement.

"Yeah?" called out Crow as he rose to his feet. "What would that be?"

"It's always full of surprises," said the voice coming from awfully close behind.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_Red Alert!_

The Son of Sarek ejected his empty magazine in favour of a fresh one from his coat pocket. The clamor was overwhelming, threatening to deafen his thoughts. With clumsy hands, he slid the mag into the gun. Pistols were hard to manipulate and operate, and it didn't help that his accuracy was piddling at best.

It was times like these that he wished he'd brought a phaser.

It would have been illogical to fret over things that _could_ have been, however, and so he peered out the side of the long packing table, making a visual sweep of what lay down the hall. His allies had been separated, and he was now cut off from his away team with no means to contact them. After some consideration, he determined that the only thing he could do was to weather the storm.

But what a storm it was. How would he make it out of this? He was just an ordinary guy–

No. No, he wasn't. He... he was a Starfleet Officer in the United Federation of Planets. He had studied and trained at Starfleet Academy, and had served aboard the USS Enterprise as a science officer for many years, a period where he had found himself in many disadvantageous situations.

He was Spock of Vulcan. Strange... Why did he, for a moment, think otherwise?

He took a moment to review his options, ultimately deciding that he would keep on the move and seek out his companions, should their paths cross. Cocking the barrel, he got to his feet and headed for the iron beam, his body bent almost ninety degrees as he crouched to stay low. He reached the pillar without incident, though peering out the side, he was forced to immediately retract as a blinding plasma burst came close to shaving his goatee clean.

Spock poked out again, this time more warily, analyzing the position and movement of his two groups of opponents. There had only been about fifteen Shapeshifters during the standoff, but more had since bled into the area through the side passages, and with their heightened agility and reflexes, they were hard to catch. While they were efficient, brutal killing machines and skilled spies, the Vulcan could not deny that the First Wave Hybrids were impressive creations, so much so that he sometimes wondered how the Romulans had devised such advanced technology, only to then remember that this was a time-travelling Romulan faction from a more advanced future.

The downfall of these Romulan puppeteers was his personal mission. His Vulcan half understood full well that they posed a grave risk to the Federation, but it was more than that; despite himself, his human side loathed them for what they had done to his mother – Amanda Grayson, that kind woman he had loved so dearly. Yet one day, without warning, they had taken her away from him. He had walked into her bedroom that fateful morning, calling out for her, wondering where she was, and bam! She simply wasn't there anymore.

The period surrounding that time was still a bit blurry in his memory, but he did recall seeing the signs that pointed to abduction. And it had been in his tireless research that he made his startling discovery. He didn't want to believe it at first, but in the end, there was no denying it; he had eliminated the impossible, and whatever remained, however improbable, had to be the truth.

And the truth was that these time-travelling Romulans had taken Amanda Grayson in the night for purposes unknown. Sometimes, he wondered if she was still alive, if the search for her was futile; these thoughts would earn swift remand no sooner than they could manifest. He knew she was still out there – he could _feel_ it – and the Son of Sarek would not rest until she was found, nor until the imperial fantasies of the Romulans and their shapeshifting footsoldiers were put to a definitive end.

There were also those ZFT guys to worry about. They had been more concentrated in the upper quadrant of the packaging area, but the lines were breaking and becoming more disorganized. If they opposed the Shapeshifters, they couldn't be too nefarious, but that didn't necessarily make them trustworthy. Precautions would need to be implemented when dealing with them.

Steeling himself, he moved out of hiding, intent on gaining a safer position to start thinning down his foes, vaguely aware that a Hybrid in the distance had acquired a pulse rifle and was putting it to liberal use. He did slow down, however, when a voice shouted at him from behind.

"Watch out, Mister Spock!"

Spock turned to see a Hybrid standing near, but it shambled to the side upon being struck by the crowbar carried by the homeless man with the blue coat and coarse grey beard.

"Slug him, Higgs!" said the vagabond.

The brown man in the dark orange jacket did just that, bringing his pipe down hard as the Hybrid careened toward him. The two men proceeded to wail on the fallen body until it ceased to move.

"Roger?" yelled Spock. "What are you doing here?"

"Figured we'd come on by and lend you boys a hand," replied Old Roger, bringing attention to his bludgeoning tool.

His friend Higgs didn't seem as pleased to be there, though.

"We gotta find some cover or something, man!" he said.

The trio sprung to action, making for some nearby crates that had housed Seed receptacle components.

"Where's Mister Crow?" asked Roger.

"I don't know," answered Spock. "Don't worry, though. Crow's a tough guy. I'm sure he's fine."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Gottfried had deflected Crow's arm just as he turned; the shot the human instinctively fired ricocheted off the back wall, and the Hybrid delivered a forward kick that connected to alarming effect. Dan glided back a few feet in the air before sliding on the floor several more, Gottfried having channeled the full inertia of his superhuman strength directly into Dan's gut.

Even as he skid on the tiled floor, painfully gasping for breath, Crow's frantic mind flipped through the depths of his knowledge for anything that could help him now. In his study of the occult, he had learned how to do many things – invoke hexes and curses upon a foe through the dark arts, exploit the weaknesses of a great many supernatural creatures, execute arcane rituals to summon forth demons whose names were best left unspoken by mortal men – but there was nothing in his expertise that he could use against Gottfried. All he had was a gun and his instincts.

Crows' velocity was halted when he crashed into the wall. The Hybrid walked down the corridor of animal corpses, advancing on the human who was painfully trying to set himself upright.

"Goodbye, Daniel," said Gottfried.

Seeing the pistol lining up to his body, Crow outstretched his arm in a burst of strength.

"Go to hell!"

In his disorientation, he fired at Gottfried's head, but ended up achieving an unexpected feat. The bullet hit Gottfried's weapon, knocking it right out of his hand; a subsequent shot collided into the overhead fluorescent light, raining glass on the floor and causing the Hybrid to flee into the maze.

Seeing Gottfried's gun, Crow skittered on all fours to retrieve it, gaining some small consolation for being dealt a flaring pain in his abdomen and back.

_Don't mind if I do_.

Unlike Crow's own Glock, Gottfried's weapon of choice had a Smith & Wesson logo on the side, though not being anything near a gun expert, he didn't know what model it might have been. Recalling Enigma's teachings, Dan checked the magazine and chamber of his new toy, revealing their contents. Feeling a bit emboldened, he decided to try his hand with the S&W, figuring he might as well exhaust its ammunition before switching back to his Glock (which he tucked into the back of his belt, thinking it unwise to start practicing dual-wielding).

"Now there's an interesting thought," called out Gottfried from the nether. "Can Hybrids even go to hell?"

"You'd probably need a soul, first," reflected Crow, navigating the meat locker. "Though I've never heard of machines with souls before."

"Ah, but we're also half _organic_, Daniel. Does this mean we have half a soul? "

"I wouldn't know. But maybe you should start praying for forgiveness in case you do, seeing as you're planning to destroy us all. The Powers That Be can't possibly be too happy with what you've been doing so far."

A shadow flew by in his periphery, but a startled Crow was too late to catch it by the time he pivoted.

"Believe it or not, Daniel, some of us do pray. I've met some Hybrids who've found God, or who follow some kind Higher Power or other. In fact, you'll find a surprising variety of religious and philosophical ideologies represented among the Second-Gens."

"Is that right?" replied Crow, having a hard time picturing that. "What do you believe in, Gottfried?"

"I was never too big on the supernatural, to be honest. All I've ever needed to get me through is my _raison d'être_."

"Oh, yeah? And what might that be?"

"Complete the mission."

He came out of nowhere, switchblade at the ready. Crow stumbled back, evading the wide slash while swinging his own arm about; his bullet tore into the organic flesh of Gottfried's left shoulder, and he grunted. There was some pain in the Hybrid's wincing expression, but his eyes spoke more of amusement, as though Dan had made an impressive play in their ongoing match of fatal chess.

Again, Gottfried attempted to break away, but Crow did not relent in his pursuit. This pursuit didn't amount to much, however, as he soon lost sight of his target. The Hybrid followed the back wall of the room in his escape; being fired at, he was forced to sidestep into the meat locker's exit passage. Crow made haste, and upon exiting the room himself, saw that the speedy Gottfried was already down the next corridor, able to evade his shots by a hair's width.

His stamina was wearing thin, but there was no time to stop and recuperate. Panting, Crow launched himself after his prey as Gottfried led him further into the bowels of the building.

Left, right, left, left; wherever the Hybrid was going, he seemed to know his way around. Which was only to be expected, seeing as the meatpacking plant was a front to mask First Wave activity. Dan felt a little more confident, being the one with ranged weaponry, but he nonetheless, he remained prudent, knowing that Gottfried would be quick to remand him for mistakes. His shoulder injury didn't seem to slow him down in the slightest, and soon, Crow lost sight of him, relying on his ears alone.

They led him to a more open area. It had a high ceiling, and seemed to adopt a zigzag layout, with a short ninety degree bend to the left turning right shortly after. A stair to a walkway was found off to his right; thinking it safer to be both against a wall and on higher ground, Crow directed himself toward it, senses sharp.

"I know you're probably listening right now," he began. "So I thought I'd let you in on something you might not know. We're coming for you. You've spent the last two decades building up your grand block castle, but it's more fragile than you think. If we push long and hard enough on the foundations, the whole thing will collapse."

Gottfried didn't respond, but Crow pressed on, hoping to push the Hybrid's buttons to get him to belt out in retort, giving him some idea of where to search.

"And you can bet your ass that we won't stop pushing and chipping away until you eliminate every last one of us. But you won't be able to. One falls, and two more take their place. The call to action has been sent, and it's already starting to spread. The Liberation Front will grow in size and strength, and by the time you realize what's hitting you, it'll be too late."

Around the corner, he could see what looked like slaughtering stations lined side by side below; they didn't seem to have been used for some time. His eyes darted furtively, the only sound being his light steps on the metal grating beneath him.

"We'll take apart your operation piece by piece. And I intend to start with putting an end to the Yggdrasil project and stopping the Second Wave before it even starts."

"In that case, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you, Daniel."

The voice came from above, resounding on the spacious chamber. Was he in the rafters of steel beams? Crow's aim shot skyward, but he couldn't make much of the shadows beyond the ceiling lamps, and he wasn't sure he could trust the acoustics of the room to pinpoint the Hybrid's position.

"The Second Wave began two months ago," shared Gottfried. "There are Harvesters in active deployment as we speak."

His blood froze, and he slowed to a halt.

_ ...We're too late!_

Gottfried chose that moment to make his entrance; Crow didn't notice until he felt something swoop down from above behind him. Though he spun fast, Gottfried caught Dan's arm, whereas Dan caught Gottfried's as it came down, stopping the switchblade from going any further. The two struggled, locked, though Gottfried's superior strength allowed him to shove and pin Crow against the wall.

"Everything's going according to plan," said Gottfried, forcing down his blade as he twisted Crow's wrist to cause him to drop his pistol. "And when we're done here, even the stars won't be around to weep for your passing."

Dan could already feel his grip on his weapon weakening from the Hybrid's agonizing hold, and the blade was inching closer to his jugular, with Gottfried gritting his teeth through the pain his shoulder. Once more, he was faced with the possibility of mortality, but somehow, it wasn't getting any easier to deal with. Yet he had freed himself from the skeletal groping of Death every time as well, and he wasn't going to allow Gottfried to break his winning streak.

_The night's still young. _

With all he had, he cranked back his head and slammed his forehead into Gottfried's own. In that moment of disorientation, Crow pushed the Hybrid away with a lunging kick, and his hands now freed, he summoned his Glock from the back of his belt and presented Gottfried with desperate blind fire from dual pistols.

Every shot that connected sent Gottfried stumbling backward along the portion of walkway jutting out where the staircase was found. His back against the railing, Gottfried teetered, trying to gain his balance; he appeared very mad now, so much so that at any other time, Crow would have been profoundly distraught.

But for all his menace, Gottfried wasn't the one with the guns.

Without hesitation, Crow fired a last bullet, one that caused the First Wave Commander to flip over the railing and land with a hard thud on the concrete floor below.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: And...scene.  
_

_So, that happened. As promised, the Kenneth-centric will be up shortly. :)_


	27. Chapter 26: Observations

Chapter 26: Observations

"Here, Rommy-Rommy-Rommy!"

Romulus did not respond to Simon's call, however. Neither did he show himself when Simon bent to look under a table.

The humans canvassed the lab in disorganized fashion, searching for the hyper-intelligent twins, looking more at the floor than anything else, and keeping their ears open for skittering footsteps or a lone squeak that would give them any indication as to the location of the fugitive rodents. Kenneth wondered if the mice were even still _in_ the lab. One moment, they're in the final prize cubicle, and the next, they're gone. For all they knew, Romulus and Remus could be on the moon at that moment; which would be a fitting destination, seeing as it was common knowledge that the moon was made of cheese.

"I see one!" said Alice, spotting the target on a table in the farther reaches of the lab.

She approached the mouse – the black patch around his right eye identifying him as Remus – trying not to startle him. For moments, Remus simply stood, observing, but just as Alice came up to the table, Remus sped off behind a stack of books. When she peered behind them, he was gone.

Then she jumped as Remus emerged from under the table, skittering down the floor, and Kenneth watched Alice as she pursued the mouse, losing him when he ducked under a cabinet. She propped herself on all fours and bent down, her face almost hugging the floor as she strained to look into the fissure. Simon, seeing this, looked to Kenneth, cocked his head to Alice's bent form, and waggled his eyebrows, drawing attention to her extruding posterior. Kenneth smirked dismissively; while he had helped himself to an innocent eyeful of Alice's form before Simon had accosted him, he decided it was best not to encourage Simon's penchant for lechery.

And when she arose, of course, Kowalczyk and Miller immediately assumed inconspicuous positions.

The tables supporting the obstacle course took up the majority of the lab's center space, impeding optimal circulation. Even so, they searched with diligence, none more so than Doctor Bishop, who was busy examining the obstacle course itself, glancing beneath the tables and scanning the compartments of the course.

Bruce found himself near the entrance area. "There's Rom – no, he's gone. Oh, he's over there now... or not. How are we supposed to catch these guys?"

"The old-fashioned way, I suppose," said Walter in answer to Mister Murray. He then spoke louder to address his assistants at large. "It seems our friends tend to disappear when they aren't being actively watched. So don't let them out of your sight, even for a second. We can't afford to lose the specimens!"

From the rear quadrant of the lab, Kenneth looked to his mentor. He had never seen Doctor Bishop so distressed. Though it was not without reason, he figured; Walter was a man who gave himself fully to his work, and so the stakes in the search and retrieval of Subjects Seven and Eight were vertiginously high. This tension proved infectious, and Kenneth, as with his fellow assistants, went about their pursuit with that much greater ardour.

The mice were quite literally all over the place, with not ten seconds going by without someone reporting a sighting. Were they going haywire? Were they playing a practical joke? Or perhaps they were testing the testers. It was hard to say what was deliberate and what was not with these two, what actions were influenced by animal instinct or by conscious decision. Whatever the case was, Kenneth hoped he would not have to spend all afternoon looking for the furry rascals.

He decided to enter Walter's office, keeping his ears alert for signs of movement in the event one or both twins were camping out there.

Then he felt something move in his lab coat pocket.

He looked down to see a bulge in his white coat where there wasn't one before. He pulled the pocket wide to see a white snout with twitching whiskers.

Kenneth delicately extracted the unannounced visitor to his left pocket and placed the mouse on Walter's desk. Black-patched Remus stared back at the human before him, his head following Kenneth's face as he knelt to observe the mouse at a level plane. Their gazes were locked, two entities having only a sequence of colours in common.

It was always strange to be in the presence of either mouse. Was Remus aware of his potential connection to Kenneth? The lab assistant liked to think Remus did on some level in his rodent mind. There was no way of telling, unfortunately; without having means for mutual communication, the secrets stored behind those small, beady eyes would be forevermore unattainable for Kenneth.

That didn't mean communication was outright impossible, though.

Kenneth looked to the office door, which was open by a crack. Outside, he heard the team trying to corner Romulus.

"Block the exit, Miss Warren!" exclaimed Doctor Bishop. "Don't let him crawl under the equipment! We almost have him!"

With the rest occupied, Kenneth lifted Remus in his cupped hands and spoke to him in a soft voice.

"I don't know what you two are doing," he began, "but I think you've had enough fun for one day. Go find your brother and bring him back here to me, okay? Can you do that?"

The mouse simply stared, giving no indication that it understood. Kenneth crouched to place the mouse on the concrete floor, where it craned its head up to continue looking to his human handler. The lab assistant mustered his thoughts, making his intention clear in his mind's eye, in case that would also have an effect. Remus remained for a few moments, then without warning, he scurried beneath Walter's desk. A quick examination beneath the desk seconds later confirmed the rodent's absence.

Kenneth stood up, running his hand through his black hair. Outside, he heard the team bemoan the sudden escape of their prey. Had Remus received the message? He supposed only time would tell.

The impulse to leave the office formed after several moments of waiting was nipped in the bud when Kenneth heard pattering on the floor. Turning around, he saw Remus emerge from beneath the desk, identified by his black eye.

A stark white mouse followed suit seconds later.

The twins came to a halt before Kenneth, sitting on their haunches in identical fashion as though awaiting further orders. The human dropped to a knee, watching the bizarre creatures. Remus followed the instructions too precisely for this to have been a fluke. While they could not directly communicate with him, they at least understood him, and that was more than Kenneth could have wanted.

This marked his first bit of progress into the mystery of the colours, and he intended to make much more in times to come.

Kenneth offered his hands to each of the mice.

"Come on, guys."

The mice looked to each other, then hopped onto Kenneth's palms. He held his arms steady as he rose before departing the office, using his foot to prop the door open.

"Well," said a surprised Simon upon seeing his colleague ferry the twins. "I would've never guessed that you were a she-wolf all this time, Ken."

Walter was the next to notice, and he sidestepped around the tables of the obstacle course to make his way there. The rest of the assistants gathered to their location after hearing Walter's relieved laughter.

"Where did you find them?" asked Alice.

"They were both in Doctor Bishop's office," said Kenneth, omitting how they got there in the first place.

"Is that so?" said Walter. He pointed his fingers to the mice Kenneth held. "You both gave me quite the scare, you know that?" Doctor Bishop pivoted to address Bruce. "Mister Murray, I think it would be best to return the subjects to their pens, now. Oh, and don't let them out of your sights."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_"...In order to proceed, they will need to roll five small spheres to the slots around the door. Each sphere can be obtained only after completing a specific challenge."_

Walter's narration played back alongside the Betamax footage the team was reviewing, sitting in the chairs and the edge of a table they dragged in front of the television. On the screen, Romulus was shown to be investigating his surroundings from above.

Kenneth took another bite of his hamburger, his colleagues also enjoying the fast food snacks the girls had retrieved after a quick trip to Marty's. The obstacle course had been dismantled, no longer having any use, and the extra tables were returned to the cafeteria, freeing the space in the center of the lab. With food as their reward for this lengthy bout of work, they watched the recorded footage with great interest.

As the maze section approached, they all unwittingly strained a little closer to the screen. Remus navigated the labyrinth over the next few minutes, then proceeded to the prize room. When faced with the identical layout, Remus tried the first few turns, and the moment he realized he had done it once before, he, like Romulus, completed the course in mere seconds, the blur on the screen the same as it had been in observed reality.

Walter paused the footage just as the camera veered to find Remus at the prize room, then rewound the cassette to a point just prior to the rodent's entry to the maze. He played it again, and the mouse once more zoomed across the maze at accelerated speeds.

"The effect is clearly not physiological," mused Walter. "The subject has demonstrated no significant changes to bodily structure that would allow such bursts of acceleration."

"What about their heightened energy state?" posed Carla. "Maybe they used a small portion of their vibrational energy to momentarily max out their speed and reflexes."

"Perhaps," replied Doctor Bishop. "And that _would_ be consistent with the energetic discharge used to circumvent the final challenge. However, it doesn't explain their spatial displacement technique. They could only change their locations when unobserved. If that ability relied on the use of internal energy reserves, they should have been able to disappear before our eyes. Something else must be at work, here."

The team continued watching, Walter writing further observations in a notebook. On the screen, the two mice reunited, exploring the final stage, and the screen flashed white when Romulus overloaded the locking mechanism with his paws. After the two had reached the prize room, the camera tilted downward as the director reviewed some functions on the camcorder. It shot up moments later after Alice's background voice noted the absence of the twins, and the camcorder framed the empty cubicle. The footage reached its end shortly after, and the screen remained hanging on the final frame, a blurred, streaked view of the lab as Walter had hurriedly stopped recording.

"If the camera had stayed on the mice," said Bruce, "would it have prevented them from leaving?"

"Well, we know they can't jump around when conscious beings are watching," said Simon. "But a camera isn't sentient, as far as I know."

"It's still an observer, though," noted Kenneth. "Just look at the dual-slit experiment. Measuring or not measuring the trajectory of a photon as it passed through one of two slits in a panel affected whether it behaved as a particle or a wave."

Walter chuckled triumphantly. "That's it! Brilliant!"

He rose abruptly and rolled the chalkboard closer to the group.

"I suspect our mice were behaving like macroscopic _photons_," he began. He drew an eye, then a dotted line leading from the pupil to a mouse of kindergarten-level artistry. "When observed, the subject's wave function is in a state of collapse, and is thus occupying a single state. However, when they are _unobserved_, their wave function de-collapses, and they embody all states simultaneously." He erased the eye and the dotted line, then smudged the chalk all over the mouse, obscuring it. "When they are observed again, they simply collapse to a new state, which correlates to a different physical location."

"But mice aren't particles," said Simon, munching on his fries. "It's clear that the decision to change their location was deliberate, and not influenced by external observers."

"Precisely, Mister Kowalczyk. Somehow, the subjects are able to observe and unobserve their own wave functions so as to alter their probable location in surrounding space. However, this only works when they themselves are unobserved, as we have seen for ourselves."

"Alright," said Alice. "So they can emit energetic discharges and manipulate their wave functions. What about the speedup in the mazes?"

"I don't think it would be energy-based," said Kenneth. "If it was, we could have expected to see visual confirmation, like them glowing or emitting a bright light or something. And it's clearly not tied to eigenstate manipulation." The group paused to think before Kenneth continued. "If they can master space, why not time? Maybe once they realized they were navigating the same maze, they fast-forwarded themselves to prevent from having to trudge through the same pattern again."

"How would that work?" asked Carla.

"Some relativistic effect, perhaps," said Walter. "If Mister Miller is correct, then for us, the subjects accelerated, but from their perspective, time would have slowed down. They might not even have noticed any changes at all from their viewpoint, as they were merely driven to procure the cheese."

"I'm still wondering why they haven't displayed any of these abilities before," said Simon.

"It's probably because they had no reason to," offered Bruce after siphoning the last of his soda. "If they had known they possessed these abilities from the start, they would have just jumped to each of the prize rooms and circumvented the entire course. I think that as they grew more familiar with the course, they began to see ways to eliminate the inefficiency of the conventional methods of completion. It would explain why they sped through the maze the second time, because it was more efficient than taking it the slow way again. Likewise, overloading the last lock was more efficient than going through the final challenge."

"So they became intuitively aware of their own potential as they went along?" asked Carla. "I guess that explains why they were moving all over the lab. They suddenly realized they could switch to different eigenstates, and were either confused and were trying to gather their bearings, or they were exploring the limitations of this new method of travel."

"Seems to be the case," agreed Simon.

Kenneth nodded as well. He would have never expected upon being selected to join this team that he would partake in such fascinating discussions, and not for the first time, he considered himself an extremely lucky guy.

"Clearly, the unifying mechanism for these abilities is consciousness," said Walter. "Of course, the question is in what way has the exposure to the Golden Frequency allowed their brains to express such abilities. As it stands, I suspect that in the exposure, the barrier between the mind and the body – and even consciousness and physical reality – has been thinned, perhaps by significant amounts. The subjects may have only just begun to tap into their potential. Who knows what else they can do?"

Kenneth might have said the capacity for understanding human speech, thoughts, or intentions, but when he considered his connection to the green-red pattern, he wondered if such an occurrence was only specific to him, and not the rest of the group.

"Clearly, more testing is in order," continued Doctor Bishop. "And more funding. I intend to write a report detailing the results of these experiments, which I will present to Kelvin Genetics. With the report and the recorded footage, I'll no doubt be able to secure additional funding for the Bio-Frequency Trials – or the _Golden Frequency Trials_, which would be a more suitable name at this point. The applications for this are potentially limitless. I have no doubt that the board will be very interested in our findings."

The team was pleased. Kelvin Genetics was the pharmaceutical firm that was funding Walter's Bio-Frequency Trials, and those to whom Walter reported directly. More funding would mean more resources and better equipment, and additional funding was pretty much guaranteed considering the extraordinary results. They could only go up from there.

"Until I make my presentation to the board, we won't be doing too much here in the lab," announced Walter. "Even so, I encourage you to begin thinking of new ways to test the abilities of the subjects. Mister Murray, make sure the subjects have been watered and fed. Otherwise, that will be all for today."

With that, Walter took all of the notes compiled during the experiment and carried them to the lab. Bruce went out back to tend to the twins as the remaining assistants hung up their lab coats and took their leave from the Kresge Building.

"I feel so invigorated right now!" said Carla to Kenneth as they exited the building. "It's like I'm high on science or something. I think I'll take a run later to get rid of this excess energy."

"Excess energy?" replied Kenneth. "Just be sure you don't go short-circuiting people you cross on the street."

She laughed. "I'll try, but I can't make any promises. Well, see you later, Kenneth."

Carla set off on the walkways of Harvard Yard. Soon after, Simon and Alice emerged from the building.

"See you, Ken!" waved Alice as she passed by.

Kenneth reciprocated the gesture, and Simon came to a rest at his side.

"You know," said Simon after a moment. "I think you and Alice would go nicely together."

Kenneth turned to his colleague. "Is that right?" he asked, sounding markedly indifferent.

"Totally," he said, self-assured. "She's into you, man. I can tell. Trust me, I know these things."

Simon gave a sly smile and a slightly arched eyebrow. Kenneth turned his sight on Alice's diminishing figure in the distance. She was certainly a beautiful woman, and was intelligent and witty to boot. There had been times where he would catch her looking at him, only for her to look away. He didn't accord too much significance to it, however. And he was wary of taking Simon's words for things; the man sometimes saw more into things than what was actually there, especially when it came to women.

Still, he could not deny that he sometimes imagined what it would be like if Alice was more than just a colleague. Doctor Bishop's team had been working together for almost a year by that point. What had been stopping him all this time? Perhaps he was simply too comfortable observing things from the outside, to imagine the possibilities, than to get involved. Or perhaps he just wasn't interested in pursuing relationships, or was too afraid to make any first contact. He didn't quite know.

Carla was similarly endearing, in her own, different way. Unbidden, his thoughts then turned to Miss Thompson, to this cute girl that worked at Bradford Diner, and to other members of the opposing sex that he had known in his life, girls and women that had stirred something inside him. It was difficult to make sense of it all, he thought; everyone had something to offer, something special or unique, if one knew where to look.

As his eyes followed Alice, they strayed to the side, locking on a different figure standing near a tree out in the Yard. The details of the man were hard to discern from so far away, but there was something about him that Kenneth found peculiar.

"Well, if you won't go for it, Ken," said Simon in a light tone, "you'd better not complain when I do. Hey, Ken? You listening?"

But Kenneth was transfixed by the man in the suit and the hat. It was only when Simon tapped him on the shoulder that he snapped out of it.

"Hmm?"

"You were spacing out, there, Ken. Anyway, I suppose I'll be heading off, now. See you later, man."

"Sure thing."

The two shook hands before Simon departed. And when Kenneth returned his sights to where the man had stood, the man was no longer there.

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: Thus marks the end of Kenneth for The Coming War.  
_

_Two chapters remain, in which we detail the aftermath of both Isen's kidnapping and the Liberation Front/Shapeshifter/ZFT shindig. They still need a few minor touches, but I should have them out before the end of the week.  
_

_See you soon! :)_


	28. Chapter 27: Deal With the Devil

Chapter 27: Deal With the Devil 

The Overseer stood the middle of a dirt path.

To his left were vast woodlands and glades, extending beyond sight. To his right was an incline curving up to a grassy field; the ruins of a castle could be seen in the distance, built atop the far end of the vaguely L-shaped rise that enclosed part of the field. Behind him, the dirt path extended for kilometers, leading further south into Bavaria.

Before him, at a distance of fifteen feet, were found one black armored van, two black Rolls-Royce Phantoms, and eight individuals. Three were ordinary humans; four others were bald and lacking eyebrows.

The last was a frightened child.

It was here, at sundown, that the two parties stared each other down.

Resting his hands on his cane, Mercedony recalled the events that had led him to that moment.

He had not been able to relocate Isen since the night he had disappeared from Für Immer, leaving only his baseball cap behind. He spread word of Isen's status as a top-priority target on the Proxy network, and created a specialized Proxy task force to enter a full-time search for the boy. The initiative had yielded no results.

The odds might have increased if he had informed his Witnesses of Isen's escape, but he did not dare place more stress on his agents, seeing what telling them of the Guardians had done. And now that the first open altercations had taken place – as it came to his attention with February's skirmish over three weeks ago – he wondered how long he could juggle the tasks of enacting the Directive and dealing with the Guardians before one or the other started to suffer.

Judging by how fast events were unfolding, he suspected the Caretaker intended to test him to his limits.

It was his Warden he had sent as his emissary to Für Immer. Almost three weeks after Isen's disappearance – a time when he had all but abandoned the possibility of finding him again – Jacques had alerted him of a presence on the surface as Mercedony navigated the holographic seas of the Empyrean Interface. When Jacques had noted that the energy signatures of the uninvited guest were not within the parameters of ordinary humans, his hopes had shot up.

But as was most often the case, it was too good to be true. When Mercedony shifted at the castle gates, overlooking the field below, he saw not a diminutive figure, but a tall, lean one in a black trenchcoat.

Not knowing the nature of the Guardian's visit, Mercedony thought it wiser to hear him out, seeing that he was standing idle in the middle of the field in apparent wait. Since he would not be able to shift before his guest with the Guardian observing – and shifting behind him would do no good if the goal was diplomacy – he instead chose to walk down the hill to meet him, although at an accelerated temporal rate so as to bridge the distance in less than a second.

No Guardian had ever laid eyes upon the Overseer until that moment. The emissary's eyes had widened in disbelief at Mercedony's approach, something which he did not fault him for; after all, his was a face that most certainly reminded the Guardian of someone he knew quite well.

"I am Agent Sunday of the Brotherhood of the Guardians," stated the Guardian, "and Warden beneath the Caretaker. I come in peace."

What intimidation he felt in the Overseer's presence, this Sunday did not show. His arms were clasped behind his back, and he stood tall in his leather trenchcoat, silver buckles clamping it taut against his chest. His eyes were hard in his angular features, and the way he held himself suggested he occupied a significant role in the Brotherhood hierarchy; quite soon did Mercedony deduce that a Warden was to the Caretaker as his Arbiters were to him.

_What is your business here, Guardian? This is no place for you. _

Sunday switched to mental discourse when he received the message.

_We have the boy Isen. He is with us at Voskresenie. _

His leather gloves had curled around the head of his cane, creaking as the material stretched. The worst possible outcome had come to pass; the last place Mercedony wanted Isen was in Holiday's hands.

_What have you done with him? Is he safe?_

_Yes. He is safe. _

_I demand that you release him to me at once. _

_That is why I have come. We are willing to return him to you. However, you must give us something in return._

_What do you want?_

Sunday thin lips widened to a smile.

_You know what it is that we desire. _

And so it was that five days later in the light of the setting sun, the Overseer was preparing to hand the Guardians his Beacon.

His first reaction had been refusal, of course. Did Holiday truly think he would surrender the Beacon so easily? He knew it was the Caretaker who had tried to take the Beacon in 1998, and again in 2008. He could not have used his Disciples or the Overseer would have suspected his involvement immediately, so Holiday turned to the North Woods Group instead, hiring a crew of Vanguard agents who would have otherwise never have gotten involved with the Beacon unless seduced by the prospect of earning the favour of the elusive Mister Holiday.

The presence of the NWG the first time had been puzzling, and their second had been even stranger; though when September reported the sighting of a Guardian at the Beacon's departure site, it all fell into place. And knowing the Beacon as intimately as Mercedony did, it had been easy for the Caretaker to deduce the eleven-year cycle that he employed for its deployment, to extrapolate future arrival sites from the patterns of previous appearances, and lastly, to realize that the worsening decay would force Mercedony to deploy it prematurely.

And he could achieve all this because he also knew the Overseer's mind intimately, how he thought and reacted, an intimacy that could only have formed after playing the game for so long.

It was why he was confident that the Overseer would consent to the exchange, even if only begrudgingly. Mercedony came to this realization himself over the three days between Sunday's offer and his return to hear the Overseer's decision.

Isen was perhaps the single most powerful child that had ever walked the Earth, in part because of his vast psionic potential, but primarily due to his connection to that accursed machine, which made him extremely dangerous by virtue of this tie. With the machine having long since been dismantled, Isen alone was nowhere near as powerful, just as hydrogen does not combust without a spark. Yet the boy could still become a volatile force on his own, especially if he were moulded to become a full-fledged Guardian, as Holiday had once tried to do.

Another Guardian would increase Holiday's advantage while diminishing Mercedony's own; and in this unending game, a single misstep would be his undoing.

In the end, the Overseer prioritized the success of the Directive over the Beacon.

He observed those who had come to treat with him. Sunday was present, countenance stern as ever. With him were three of his colleagues, Guardians who marvelled silently at the sight of the Overseer, the figure they had only heretofore been told about; one had multiple piercings, another had hands resplendent with rings, and the third had the hints of a large tattoo creeping up the side of his neck.

The apparent choice to encourage individuality in his Guardians was only surprising for a few moments. Unlike Witnesses, their methodology did not require them to become fully detached and impartial to everything including their inner selves, to become living manifestations of the Directive itself. He felt a twinge of regret that he had denied his Witnesses the chance to explore individuality, but it was necessary for the sake of the Directive, just as lowered emotional capacity was a necessary requisite in their creation to ensure observational objectivity (something the Caretaker clearly did not value as much).

Isen stood with Sunday's hands on his shoulders, holding him in place. He was wearing different clothing, having abandoned the clothes Joan Winick had given him in favour of nice jeans, shoes, and a horizontal-striped shirt of blues and blacks and whites. They must have told him to behave, too, for he was standing still, not trying anything brash. Though while he said nothing, the boy's state of mind was reflected with clarity on his face.

The Overseer ended their stand-off by speaking first.

_Are you alright, Isen?_

The boy nodded. They must have told him to remain quiet as well; either that, or his fear was stifling his ability to reply. Sunday's thoughts were heard next.

_I presume that is the Beacon. _

_That it is._

The object Sunday referenced was standing at the Overseer's side. It was a black dodecahedron with a diameter of approximately three feet, comprised of twelve smaller versions of the frequency dampening disks arranged within the Beacon housing chamber. The top face had a handle affixed to it, and additional handlebars were pinned to each of the lower five faces.

_Is it safe?_

_The casing fully shields the Beacon's frequency. If it did not, even I could not bear standing so close. _

Sunday nodded.

_Good. First, we will take the Beacon. Then, if it satisfies our expectation, we will release the boy._

_Of course. _

Despite Mercedony's assurances, Sunday sent the three black-clad Disciples present with him to fetch the case. The Disciples of the Brotherhood were Holiday's answer to the human Witnesses-by-Proxy network under Mercedony's employ, and like Proxies, Disciples acted not only as foot soldiers tending to the minutiae of the Brotherhood operation, but as spies and moles, information the Caretaker had shared with the Overseer one their rare crossing of paths since the inception of their ongoing enmity.

Like all humans, these three could not naturally see the Overseer; as far as they were aware, the Guardians had been standing and staring at the dodecahedron this whole time, oblivious to the silent conversation they were having with their hidden interlocutor. Though as they approached, Mercedony made himself known to them as a courtesy, projecting his image into their minds, and they were momentarily taken aback at the very faint, luminous silhouette their brains could just about interpret. But then they remembered who they worked for, and ignored the figure entirely as they went to work.

Heavier than it appeared, the Disciples lifted the case together by the handles and carried it back to the Guardians. Knowing the Beacon was inside, the Guardians reflexively took a few steps back at its approach, and Sunday stopped the Disciples a few feet from them. Tilting his head, the Warden directed the Guardian with the piercings to inspect the case. Hesitant, he inched forward, cringing, until he stopped before it. Not experiencing any adverse effects, he went ahead and placed a hand on the case itself, feeling the Beacon's vibrations coursing through it.

With a satisfied smile that revealed a golden tooth, he turned to the Warden and his comrades, who were also sporting grins.

_To extract the Beacon, you need only push down on the top handle, twist clockwise, and pull up. _

_Excellent. Pleasure doing business, Mercedony._

Sunday let go of the boy.

The moment he did, Isen came running, kicking up dust with his urgent strides.

His eyes welling, he came crashing into Mister Richards, wrapping his arms around him, and Mercedony made no effort to stop him, placing a light hand on the boy's bald head as he watched the Disciples load the Beacon into the back of the van.

He didn't need to tell Isen that it was not Mercedony he saw in his resurging memories, but another.

An understandable mistake, seeing as they shared the same face.

The last pieces of the puzzle were set the moment Isen disappeared from the exam room in Für Immer. Those who called themselves Guardians had not been the Caretaker's first attempt; indeed, it was Isen and others like him. The Caretaker had gone back and kidnapped the most powerful group of children that had ever lived in his attempt to create agents superior to his own Witnesses. It was a theoretically sound plan; the brains of children, still not hardened by the wear and tear of the lived experience, made excellent candidates. Using children might not have been the most ethical approach, to be sure, but Mercedony bore no judgement on his adversary; after all, he had considered using children himself for the same reasons Holiday did.

Yet as the Overseer came to suspect – and as Holiday had learned after the fact – the vast potential inherent to a young mind had the trade-off of lack of structure and maturity, which ended up making Isen and the other Potentials inferior products. Something then must have happened – the Caretaker abandoned them, or they escaped the Nexus Point – and these proto-Guardians, rendered immortal, have been scattered around the globe for the past eight thousand years.

There was still one missing piece to the equation, though. In the year 5842 BCE, Mercedony had sensed a hiccup in time, history having shifted so minutely that it might well not even have changed at all. Something _did _change, however, and only now did Mercedony realize that it was Holiday going back to take the children. The question was how he managed to travel in time and interfere with the past without resetting the Linear Confluence Point – the forward-moving point where the future collapsed into the past, a point humans experienced as the present. He would have to ask him how he accomplished this impossible feat the next time they meet.

Whatever the case, a group of children had suddenly vanished from history, and until his recent dealings with Isen, he couldn't figure out why. One of the many mysteries of reality had been laid to rest.

The two watched the Disciples entering their vehicles, which had been parked on the side of the dirt path. The vehicles roared to life, and they navigated the narrow path to make a u-turn, forming a convoy, the van sandwiched fore and aft by the Phantoms. The caravan set out, beginning their journey back to Voskresenie in a haze of dust.

_Mister Richards?_

_Yes, Isen?_

_Why give Beacon?_

_I had no choice if I wanted to bring you back._

While the decision had been mostly logistical, Mercedony could not deny it had also been informed by sentiment; he was strangely fond of the boy, so much so that he found himself stressing Isen's welfare in the internal deliberation that had led him to agree to the exchange.

_Get it? _

Mercedony looked down to Isen. The Beacon was merely was a capsule of Void Energy, and its resonance aided in the mending of the Veil. What use did the Caretaker have for it, other than using it as a healing agent the same way Mercedony had done? Apparently, the reason he desired the Beacon was strong enough to give up Isen, which troubled the Overseer and was at the source of his reluctance to part with the cylinder.

_We will regain it, Isen. Not today, but soon._

After all, this was but a temporary setback. And the Caretaker no doubt expected the Overseer to come after him for the Beacon.

He wouldn't want to disappoint his old friend, now, would he?

He already had something to start with. If the Guardians had picked up the container themselves instead of sending their Disciples, he wouldn't have been able to read into their minds with ease and ascertain where they were intending to transport the Beacon. Had Voskresenie been in Sector-2 Ukraine all this time? An interesting choice.

One after the other, the Guardians, who still remained as the vehicles departed, turned and left themselves, leaving an explosion of dirt in their wake. Sunday was the last to depart, lingering few extra moments to savour their small victory, then he was gone also.

After the dust had settled, Isen heard the mental corollary of a sigh come from Mister Richards.

_Come along, Isen. Are you up for walking? _

The Overseer began to move forward, heading up the small incline that would lead to the field at the foot of Schloss Hohenberg. The boy did not follow, and when he noticed, Mercedony turned his head to see Isen's head slouched forward, and he was rubbing his arm.

_Sorry for running, Mister Richards. _

Mercedony offered him a weak smile.

_It is quite alright, Isen. Let us head inside. Perhaps you might like to return to the Viewing Room. Much has happened in the past seventy years you were gone, and there is much catching up to do. _

_Um... Hot chocolate?_

_Of course. In fact, I think I might have some myself._

At an easy pace, they waded through the grass, neither of them in much of a hurry, choosing to take the scenic route. For the sooner they got back, the sooner Mercedony would have to start formulating plans on retrieving the Beacon. He wasn't looking forward to informing his Witnesses that he has lost the Beacon to the Guardians, either; they weren't fond of sudden changes. But such things could not be helped. Ascending the ancient, winding path up the hill to the castle ruins, he wondered if it might be best to summon them all to Für Immer.

The boy was close behind as they passed through the castle gates. Mercedony took the opportunity to probe Isen's mind. It was more stable than it once was now that much of the clutter of psychological repression and trauma had been cleared. Isen now knew how he ended up in his present condition, but there were still many memories that hovered beyond reach. He still did not remember Mercedony or where he himself came from. Should he tell him, or let the boy remember on his own? That was a question he would have to ponder later.

Down the central keep they went, into the stairs, down to the cellar, and through the illusory wall to Für Immer's elevator, where Jacques greeted them, enthused as ever.

_Vishara Isen, _he thought as they descended into the earth._ You and I are responsible for so much. Perhaps it is better that you do not remember after all. _

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: Dun dun duuun.  
_

_One chapter remains. As stated previously, it details the aftermath of the Liberation Front storyline. But other familiar faces appear, and our understanding of the Silent War will deepen. And of course, it sets the stage nicely for PTS IV.  
_

_I will post that two days from now (three at the most). And remember, any and all feedback is appreciated. :)  
_


	29. Chapter 28: The Changing of Tides

Chapter 28: The Changing of Tides

There was something very dangerous in placing a dozen powerful men in the same room, thought William Bell.

He was seated at the corner of the rectangular table, on the Secretary's left side, who sat at the end, facing down the table with a view of everyone present. The rest, ten in number, filled in the remaining places, each of them fulfilling a specific purpose. Some brought wealth and funding, while others brought resources and knowledge; whatever the area of expertise, every man in the room was a vital gear in the clockwork of their secretive orchestrations.

And secretive it was; in a world of nearly seven billion, only the twelve members of the Global Defence Coalition were truly aware of the threat of oblivion their world – and the universe at large – was facing.

But even with a common cause, there was palpable grinding amidst the gears, for everyone in the room had their own vision as to how best wage their righteous battle against the Other Side. Bell could sense the unspoken agendas roiling behind the facades of his colleagues like waves of heat, just as he was sure they could sense the same from him. There wasn't much to be done in that respect; it was simply par for the course in the quarterly GDC roundtable meetings.

Bell had been a founding member of the GDC, recruited by two men who were very impressed with the rapid progression of BellMedic. One was Walter Bishop, who back then was the US Defence Czar, and would later become the Secretary of Defence. The other was Karl Manning, who was the founder and CEO of Manning Industries and head to the North Woods Group. Over the next twenty years, they stocked their organization with members loyal to their cause, and the current roster comprised of the most influential figures yet.

They went around the table as they did with all meetings, starting with Walter Bishop's immediate right. Here sat Secretary of Treasury James Van Horn, Walter's accomplice in the presidential Cabinet, and whose primary function was finding ways to funnel funds to the GDC's operations while maintaining the organization's secrecy among the higher tiers of the government. Next to Van Horn was Andrew Whitfield, Senator of North Texas and Walter's eyes and ears in the United States Congress.

After matters pertaining to these two were reviewed – during which relevant diagrams and charts were displayed on the table surface at each of the twelve seats – they directed their attention to media mogul Pierce Rothstein, CEO and Chairman of NewsCorp, a large media conglomerate that owned a few mainstream media outlets and influenced many more. His was a central task, making sure that the GDC and its activities, as well as the true nature of universal decay, continued to remain beyond the range of public awareness. Bell knew of the popular conspiracy theories that had Walter Bishop as their centerpiece, many fuelled by the fact that he has been repeatedly elected as the Secretary of Defence over multiple administrations; many of the men present in the room also enjoyed decent coverage. There was truth in these elaborate narratives – as there was always truth to anything – but Walter Bishop would sooner have these occasional truths remained buried beneath the mounds of unfounded conspiracies than be revealed to the masses.

Next in line were Generals Steven Tonks and Sanford Harris, their connection to the US Army and Air Force, respectively. With the American military under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defence, their cooperation and loyalty had been easiest to obtain. They spoke of weapons testing, trying out the newest prototypes developed and designed by the joint effort of the DOD Science Division and DARPA, and manufactured by Manning Industries, the largest military contractor in the United States. There was also talk of field tests for the newest iterations of the V-Nade and the Nova Pulse Rifle, as well as progress of their missile and nuclear weapon stockpiling operation, a precautionary measure in the event worse came to worst.

Attention shifted to Karl Manning, arguably the most significant contributor to the group, who was sitting at the other end of the table, facing the Secretary. It was apt that Manning was sitting there, as he had been Walter's first ally, and it was from their joint efforts that the GDC came to be, the spark of Walter's animosity for his doppelganger and the theft of his son reigniting the decaying fire that was the North Woods Group, both united in their crusade against the Other Side.

From the beginning, Bell had distrusted Manning. He was a wealthy and powerful figure, both the founder of Manning Industries – this world's answer to Massive Dynamic, Bell had soon discovered – as well the inheritor of the NWG's wealth, power, and legacy. In many respects, he was not unlike Bell. But that was not the problem; the problem was the Vacuum Machine, and how he both came to discover it and find many of its components prior to the founding of the GDC.

At least with the Secretary of Defence, there was no question as to what his motives were and why he was invested in the Silent War. With Manning, there was no greater mystery.

Karl had much to say, first updating the board on the status of soldier construction for the three Waves and weapons manufacturing and stockpiling, then moving on to Intel sent back to them by both Hybrid operatives and NWG Vanguard agents – Intel to which Bell had made slight adjustments to prior to their meeting. ZFT and Massive Dynamic continued to be nuisances as ever, but what was most distressing was the increased activity in MD-brand Penrose supersoldier clones, with the first completely-trained specimens being sent out on their first trial runs in covert military campaigns and tentative offensives against GDC-run operations on the Other Side.

When decisions on how to proceed with Manning's input were deliberated and agreed upon by the rest, Dietrich Mahler went next; he was the representative of the Coalition's German associates, their primary foreign allies in this undertaking. For it was German scientists in WWII that started all this, their early experiments into peeking at the Other Side laying the foundation for an inter-world Cold War, colloquially called the _Colder War_, one that ran concurrent to the more popular Russo-American conflict. And the Colder War might have remained Cold for much longer had the 1985 Zero Event not occurred, the catalyst through which the passive Colder War became the active Silent War thanks to the GDC.

The North Woods Group, originally a multinational, exclusive club of bankers and economists established in the thirties by Maxwell Manning, had a history with Mahler's people, Bell had learned; Manning had recounted to him how an alliance struck between the NWG and marginalized German parties harbouring anti-Nazi sentiments was one of the lesser known contributing factors to the downfall of the would-be Fourth Reich, and it was these past dealings that allowed Karl to reach out to those his grandfather had partnered with and persuade them to join their cause, who sent Mahler as their representative.

Following Mahler were three significant financial backers to the GDC: Theodore Krantz of Griffin Oil, Jimmy Thurston of Pewter-Thurston Electronics, and David Esterbrook of INtREPUS Pharmaceuticals. Their reports were shorter, as their only real purpose was wiring funds and resources to the GDC.

The faces of the financial backers had changed over the years, with new CEOs succeeding them, or older members reneging on their support, only to suffer "unfortunate accidents" that ensured their silence, at which point other companies would fill the void; the military officials have changed once or twice as well due to retirement. Only Walter, Manning, and Bell, the founding members, have occupied permanent seats in the history of the GDC.

This was the enemy that threatened Bell's world of origin. And at the Secretary's behest, William Bell, Chief Scientist of the DOD Science Division and founder, former CEO, and Chairman of BellMedic, began to actively aid this enemy in their quest to destroy a world he was trying to protect from them.

"Thank you, Mister Secretary," said Bell curtly. "Gentlemen, the progression of the First Wave continues to approach the optimal level of infiltration required for the commencement of the Second Wave. In the time since our last meeting, we've continued to install Hybrid operatives in high-ranking governmental and international entities that exist on the Other Side. At present, the First Wave of Operation Ragnarok is approximately 81.4% complete."

"That isn't much of an improvement over the last projections," noted an unimpressed Dietrich Mahler as he observed the charts and figures that appeared on the table surface before him.

"There have been some... _complications_," said Bell uneasily. "I regret to inform the members of this board that we've lost another of the Big Eight. About two months ago, Carlisle was destroyed in an ambush during an operation in Central America, and the body was damaged beyond possible repair. With only Gottfried and Raines remaining as our active First Wave Commanders, progression has slowed significantly."

A pause formed as the dozen took in the grim news. Dietrich in particular seemed displeased, which was never a good sign; more than once had he shared that those he represented had doubts as to the prospects of their ongoing operation.

"On the positive side," offered Bell, "Project Lazarus is nearing completion. Very soon, we will have completed a new body for Newton. When it is ready, the replacement body will be transferred to the Other Side, at which point the head will be reattached, restoring Newton to an active status and filling in for Carlisle."

"Any timeframe for when this new body will be completed?" asked Esterbrook.

"Barring potential unforeseen complications, it will take two more weeks to make the final adjustments. Three, at the most."

It had been four years since Thomas Jerome Newton's body had been destroyed in Darfur; his head, however, had remained undamaged enough to warrant indefinite cryogenic suspension. Cue Project Lazarus, which aimed to design a new body to which Newton's head could be reattached. Yet Newton was a First-Generation Hybrid, one of eight created during the Colder War by the NWG-German alliance, and the technology was slightly different than Bell's own Second-Gen designs. Due to lack of extant Colder War-era blueprints and documents, Bell and his team had to create a First-Gen compatible body from scratch in a four-year game of trial-and-error.

Fortunately, the toiling was soon to reach its end. Yet Bell had been granted no say as to the secret mission stored in the Data Disk that was to be implanted in the finalized body, a daring mission the Secretary was plotting as part of the final phase of Operation Ragnarok, one only Bell, Walter, and Manning knew about.

He would have to warn the Other Side of Newton's impending arrival... but how?

The thought was shelved when Dietrich spoke once more.

"Supposing Project Lazarus is successful, can you guarantee that Newton's presence will accelerate the advancement of the First Wave and make up for the losses caused by Carlisle's departure?" When Bell hesitated to speak, Mahler continued. "The First Wave began twenty years ago, and progress has been dwindling these past few years. When will we be seeing results?"

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mahler," said Jimmy Thurston. "Our company's investment in this venture is very high-risk. Without results, there's little cause for continued contribution."

The dominoes of dissent cascaded around the table, with even the military officials expressing their reservations as to the possibility of success despite their steadfast loyalty. Only Manning and Walter held their tongues, observant as always. It was Walter's unequalled patience and Manning's charisma that held this group together, Bell knew, but the tension in the room gave him the sense that they would not stand for this much longer.

After the wave of opposition had crested and fallen, all eyes turned to Bell, waiting to see what assurances he would offer them this time. But now was not the time for empty promises; something had to be done.

He rose from his seat.

"If you may be so kind, gentlemen," he said, "I'd invite you all to follow me."

"Where to, might I ask?" inquired the Secretary.

"There's something I'd like to show you."

Bell opened the door, waiting to see if they would follow. Walter was the first to rise after a moment's consideration; the man had come to trust Bell in time, much to his advantage. The sight of their leader getting up incited the rest to do likewise, and Bell led the procession all the way to the Science Division at the lower levels of the facility.

When they arrived, Doctor Brandon Fayette, Lead Lab Assistant of the DOD Science Division and Bell's immediate subordinate, approached them, grasping a clipboard with one hand and smoothing his white lab coat with the other.

"Doctor Bell," he said, surprised by the sudden arrival of a dozen men. "Mister Secretary. Uh, what can I do for you?"

"If you wouldn't mind, Doctor Fayette, I'd like to show these gentlemen to Humphrey's cell."

"The cell, huh? Uh, sure. This way, sirs."

The thirteen of them navigated the Science Labs until they came to a large, two-floor room, descending the balcony to the lower level. They stopped before an expansive cell separated from the room they stood in by a transparent pane of reinforced plastic reaching almost to the ceiling. The cell was once a clean, white room, but marks of what appeared to be soil and decaying plant material covered the floor. The right forward corner was a bit wet, water dripping from a metal pipe whose large tank sat on the outside of the cell for ease of accessibility. Red double doors were set in the back right.

The detail that stood out the most, however, were the dirty footprints lining the cell floor, walls, and ceiling alike in all directions. They soon connected these prints to the thing in the cell's upper left back corner, huddled over itself, facing inward.

"What _is_ that?" muttered Mahler.

"That," said Bell, "is Humphrey, one of our first successfully grown Harvesters. Doctor Fayette, have Humphrey approach the pane."

Brandon relayed the order to his team, who spoke into the microphone. The voice command was translated to a mathematical code and routed into the chamber as a radio signal. When Humphrey received the signal, the Harvester stood, craned its head, and obeyed, walking down the wall to the floor and roaming to a halt five feet from the pane. So close to the partition, they could hear the peculiar clicking noises the Harvester was emitting. The GDC members gazed at the entity standing before them, impressed, amazed, and unnerved, none of them except for Walter and Manning having ever seen a Harvester in the flesh.

"I think a demonstration is in order," said Bell. "Doctor Fayette?"

The lab assistant nodded and shared the instructions to his colleagues. A minute later, the backdoors were opened, and a juvenile pine tree was brought in sideways by two scientists, base enrooted in a large pot, and it was upright that the scientists left it. Humphrey seemed to sense the plant material before the tree had even entered, turning around to anticipate the entry moments before.

Knowing what it had to do, Humphrey the Harvester went to work, fulfilling its purpose. The audience watched, enraptured, as Humphrey did what he was designed to do. But the tree appeared unchanged. Seeing this, Doctor Fayette had his colleagues return to the cell, bringing in a plant specimen that Humphrey had interacted with three days ago.

Some of them gasped, others shared wide-eyed looks, and a few muttered some _Good Gods_ and other appropriate substitutes.

Brandon took the opportunity to explain the scientific principles behind what they had witnessed, and what they were now seeing. Looking at their faces, especially Mahler's, Bell could not help but smirk in smug satisfaction, only to then question the pride he felt at being the creator of the being residing on the other side of the pane.

Sated, Humphrey returned to its ceiling corner, whereupon Bell addressed the group.

"You say you want results?" he said, targeting Mahler most of all. "Well, here they are."

Where once they were reluctant, they were now eager. How could the Other Side possibly stand against Humphrey and his brethren?

"How soon can we expect the Harvesters to be ready for deployment, Doctor Bell?" asked the Secretary suddenly, staring into the cell with intent.

"Manning Industries has already begun fabricating the perfected Yggdrasil Seeds, so we can start at any time."

"Good." He turned to face the group. "I want you to get started on that as soon as you can."

Bell could already see what the Secretary intended in those squinting, calculating eyes of his, but he went ahead and asked anyway. "So soon? The First Wave isn't fully completed –"

"It seems the majority opinion is that we have been waiting too long," said Walter, eyeing the group. "And I agree. Time waits for no one, certainly not for us, and we must act with what little of the time we might have left. The First Wave is sufficiently advanced for the next phase, I believe."

He had been preparing for this day from the moment he helped dream up the three Waves of Operation Ragnarok, but William Bell could not stop the shiver in his spine when Walter finished his next sentence.

"Begin the deployment of the Harvesters," he instructed. "The Second Wave starts now."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

Upon descending the staircase, Crow stood at a safe distance to examine Gottfried's bullet-riddled corpse. In addition to the earlier shoulder wound, there were holes dotting the torso and abdomen, and one in the thigh; the majority of his meagre ammo reserves had made their mark. Red and silver seeped from the points of entry, trickling down his navy shirt and black pants in rivulets, tributaries to the small pool that was starting to expand from beneath him.

His limp arms lay outstretched, and his head was turned at the side, eyes closed. Gottfried looked more like he was taking a quick catnap than anything else. For some strange reason, Crow thought it was unfortunate that he was gone. In the heat of the moment, it had been a battle for survival, yet he now felt that if things had been different, they could easily have chilled with a beer or two.

_Rest in peace, Gottfried. You're the nicest guy I've ever killed. _

Crow tucked the Smith & Wesson at the back of his belt, then tucked in his Glock in his coat pocket; having squeezed them dry, they were now useless, and he didn't think pistol whipping was the most effective defense measure. As he sheathed the Glock, he felt something in his other pocket, and reached to pull out his walkie-talkie.

It occurred to him that his friends were still fighting for their lives back on the main playing field.

He had turned off the transceiver to eliminate inopportune noise, but with Gottfried dealt with, he was free to reopen the channels. Promptly, he turned it on and sent out a message.

"This is Crow, come in!" he said with rising urgency. "Keane? Guy? Do you read?"

"...This is Keane," replied Enigma after a moment. "Where the hell are you, man?"

"I'm not exactly sure. But I took down Gottfried. He's dead." Enigma didn't answer, presumably taking in the news. "What about you guys?"

"It's over," said Keane. "We drove the Shapeshifters back." Dan flexed his brows; Enigma didn't sound particularly happy about it. "You should probably get back here."

"Yeah," said Crow, staring at Gottfried's inert body. "I'll meet you at Alpha Point."

"...Copy that."

He put the transceiver away, then turned to Gottfried. For a moment, he was unwilling to leave the Hybrid's body unsupervised, but it wasn't like he would be going anywhere, so Dan embarked on his trek back to the packaging area. He decided to navigate the first floor, heading in the general cardinal direction of the packaging site, and after some uncertain exploration, he started to recognize some of the corridors, and so he made his way down the path he had traversed earlier alongside Axiom and Cazador.

At last, he emerged to the site of the firefight. The fighting had indeed stopped, the present calm almost deafening in comparison to the pandemonium of before. He walked out, positioning himself to take in the whole of the packaging hall. Some Shapeshifter bodies could be seen, and ZFT agents were on the prowl, examining the Seed receptacles or conversing amongst one another or tending to their injuries. But no Liberation Front members could be seen, which Crow found curious.

"Crow!"

Enigma approached him from his right. The gap bridged, they clasped their hands and drew themselves, patting themselves once on the other's back before stepping back. Keane seemed pleased enough to see him, but Dan had the sense that something was troubling him.

"Nice to see you again," said Crow. "For awhile, I wasn't sure I would. Where is everyone?"

"They're all out back that way," said Keane with a cock of the head. "Come on. I'll take you to them."

Without waiting, Enigma started off toward the corridor. Crow noticed that some of the ZFT guys were eying him and talking, but he abandoned them to their gossiping as he caught up to his comrade.

"We got splintered during the fight," explained Keane as they strolled. "My team got separated, but I ended up teaming up with some ZFT guy." Crow gave him a surprised look, prompting Enigma to clarify. "It kind of just happened. He sent word to his buddies that some of us weren't Shapeshifters, and from there, the tides turned pretty quick. The remaining Shapeshifters knew the fight was lost; we tried to chase them down, but some escaped."

Turning the corner, they stepped over a Shapeshifter corpse.

"What do you make of ZFT?" inquired Dan.

"I'm not sure. After the fighting dwindled, I reunited with Spock, and we went looking for the others. Speaking of which, Old Roger and one of his homeless buddies are here."

"What?"

"Yeah. Spock bumped into them on the battlefield. Anyway, the Front's been focusing on regrouping. ZFT has been kind of doing their own thing, but we're going to have to deal with them soon."

"Seems Lenny is the leader, so we should go find him in a bit," said Crow. "What about our guys? How are they holding up?"

Enigma didn't answer, and when Dan set his sights forward, he saw why.

They had entered what looked to be the plant's loading bay, with large garage doors down to the left providing access for delivery trucks. He could see one or two Shapeshifter bodies and a ZFT corpse, but that wasn't what caught his attention.

Before him were standing nine individuals, all gathered around something. Those facing Crow's direction perked up at his sight, causing those facing away to turn around. He could see that they were all relieved to see him, but it was not enough to overcome their sorrowful faces. He joined them at the edge of their circle, his eyes falling down.

He had seen that mask before. But this one was different; there was a small, shattered hole in the center of the forehead where there once was none, rimmed in red.

Dan felt like he was sinking inside himself, drowning as the air in the room wore thin. He clenched his fist, but soon let it go; he only then realized the full extent of his physical pain and exhaustion, and found he was too tired to be angry at the Shapeshifters. He instead was saddened, though it wasn't the same this time around. He hadn't known The Guy as well as he did Gary Saunders, so it was more a general sense of loss than a piercing one. He could see the effect in action before him; the Manhattan Front members were visibly taking it harder than the Boston Front.

Even so, it was clear that Polaris, Druid, Spock, and Enigma were not untouched by The Guy's demise. Rebecca edged over to Crow's side, cupping herself in her arms.

"Axiom and Cazador tried to get us back to Enigma, but we were blocked off and were driven here instead," she explained, speaking softly. "The Guy tried to buy us time to get us back safely."

"Did it work?"

"Yeah. He held them up while we retreated. We bumped into Druid, Starseed, and Dryad and stuck together. Enigma and Spock found us later."

Dan nodded slowly, pensive. He knew very little about the man behind the mask. Standing in silence, he was tempted to kneel down and remove it, revealing the face that lied beneath. He quickly dispelled the notion, however – Crow had learned all he needed to know about The Guy and who he was.

Besides, the idea of taking away The Guy's anonymity kind of felt wrong. After all, he _was_ just some guy – a guy that died for what he believed in.

His eyes drifted to the right, and he caught two figures standing at a distance, one of whom was familiar. An older vagabond in a blue coat with a grey beard was engaged in a heated discussion with a brown man in an orange jacket; when they noticed that Dan was looking their way, they averted their eyes and resumed their fervent discourse.

Spock, noticing Crow's detection of the homeless duo, got Dan's attention, bidding him aside with a motion of his head. Crow shot a glance to his comrades, more so to his recently-acquired Manhattan allies. He had once been in their position; with The Guy having meant more to them, he figured it would be best to let them grieve on their own.

"Enigma tells me they came here to help," informed Crow.

"They saved my ass back there," relayed Spock. "Might be a good idea to go talk to them."

Acquiescing, Crow made his way over to Old Roger and his associate, Spock tagging along. At the sight of Spock and Crow, the two shot up, and put in a few extra words between each other. Roger redressed himself, and when the other man leaned in to make a last comment, Roger backhanded his shoulder, and he too stood straighter.

"Reporting for duty, Mister Crow," greeted Roger, saluting.

"At ease," said Dan, amused. "What brings you here?"

"Me and Higgs here thought we'd help you boys out. Been staking out this place this last week, and when I saw you go in, I fetched Higgs and we broke in. Don't have guns or anything, but we wanted to give a hand anyway we can. Oh, by the way, this is Higgs."

"Henry Higgins, at your service," said the man with the orange coat. "But everybody just calls me Higgs."

"Just wanted you fellas to know that we want to contribute to this resistance thing you got going on," said Roger. "Anyway we can help, you just give the word."

"We'd love to have you aboard," said Crow with a moment's consideration. "I'm sure we can figure out some way to put you to good use."

Dan shook hands with them both as informal induction, at which point Spock addressed him.

"I was going to ask you, Crow. Did you really take down Gottfried?"

His eyes widened as he recalled his bout with the First Wave Commander.

"For a second, I forgot all about that," he said. "Why don't we go check up in him?"

Spock, Old Roger, and Higgs seemed to welcome the idea, and so the four set off.

"We're going to check on Gottfried's body," announced Crow to the Liberation Front. "He's in the slaughterhouse area up that way. Anyone want to come?"

The eight of them conferred with their eyes.

"I think I'll stay," said Starseed, cheeks still wet. Adept, Axiom, Source, and Cazador made no move.

"I'll go with you," announced Dryad.

Druid also ventured to Crow's party, while Enigma and Polaris declined the offer. The sextet departed, following Crow and Spock all the way back to the site of Gottfried's body. Once there, they stopped, and Spock spoke first after a moment's observation.

"I thought you said you killed him, Crow."

"I did," replied Crow, equally concerned. "At least, I _thought_ I did."

The gang stared at the puddle of mercury-infused blood where a body was supposed to be; their eyes traced the trail of silver-red specks and gobs that led down the hall, disappearing into the passageway.

_But... I killed him..._

"How the hell's he still alive?" asked Druid, scratching at his beard.

"I emptied my guns into him," said Crow. "But I guess that wasn't enough. He must have mustered the strength to make his escape once I left here."

Exactly how Gottfried did that while scored with bullet holes was another question entirely, he thought. He settled with the theory that figuratively and quite possibly literally, the Hybrid had balls of steel.

"What do we do?" asked Roger.

"Well, he couldn't have gotten far," said Dryad. "Should we go after him?"

He was going to offer a course of action, but everyone turned around upon hearing footsteps, inciting him to do the same. Entering the area was Enigma, who led a quartet of ZFT operatives to their position, Lenny among them; the Liberation Front members tensed.

Keane was immediately alarmed by Gottfried's absence.

"Gottfried's escaped!" he said.

Lenny halted, assessing the situation. "Hanley, Morrison, follow the trail and track him down," he commanded.

Two of the four ZFT agents broke formation, arming themselves.

"I'll go with them," offered Keane, and given Dan's blessing, he made after them.

Once the trio vanished around the corner, the two parties returned their attention to one another. Crow and Spock stood before Lenny and his partner, while the others were stationed on the sidelines.

"I've been told that you're in charge of this group," said Lenny. "Is that right?"

In his combat boots and black attire, Lenny certainly looked the part. He had a head of neat, dirty blonde hair, and his hazel eyes scrutinized the cap-wearing mean before him.

"That's right," said Dan. "I'm Crow. This here is Spock."

Lenny and his pal exchanged a perplexed glance, but quickly shrugged it off.

"Alright, _Crow_," resumed Lenny. "Listen closely. When your friend comes back, I suggest you gather your people and get going. We can handle things from here."

Crow felt as though he had been slapped in the face. "What do you mean, _get going_?" he asked in restrained indignation.

"Make no mistake. We're grateful for the assistance you've lent to us, but this is no place for civilians. I don't know how you get involved in all this, but this is a dangerous game, not one meant to be played by amateurs. You're better off leaving things to the professionals."

"Are you _serious_?" exclaimed Crow, too tired to control his disbelief. "You want us to just _leave_? We've come too far to back down now!"

"Do you know what you're up against?" asked Lenny, not too fond of Crow's tone. "Do you know what's at stake? This is bigger than you can possibly imagine. We do what we do so that people like you can still have lives to live. I wouldn't be so quick to throw that away, Crow."

"Oh, I know what's at stake," affirmed Dan. "But this concerns _all of us_. The Shapeshifters are threatening to destroy us all, and I'll be damned if I'm just going to sit around and do nothing it, civilian or not."

Lenny muffled a scoff. "You want to make a difference, is that right? How exactly do you plan on doing that? How much manpower do you have? How many resources do you have at your disposal? What do you think you know about the enemy? We're a global organization, Crow. Trained soldiers, all of us. And we've been fighting them for almost fifteen years. I'm afraid you'd be a small thorn in their side at best."

"We've only been operational for the past few months, I'll grant you that," admitted Dan. "And yeah, we're only about a dozen strong, and we're not pros. But that sure as hell didn't stop us. In the last six months, we've collectively made dozens of recon and raiding missions. We've infiltrated one of their lairs, and we blew up one of their Titan production sites. And tonight, we were going to dismantle the Yggdrasil Seed operation they have going here. I'd say that for mere civilians, that's pretty damn impressive."

Lenny and his associate exchanged a puzzled glance; the latter shrugged, and Lenny turned to address Crow once more.

"Yggdrasil?" he said. "Titans? What on Earth are you talking about?"

Dan's face went blank as he tried to process what Lenny just said.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," said Crow. "You don't know anything about the Harvesters or the Titans? The Second and Omega Waves? How can you _not know_ about what's to come? They leave their super sensitive Intel lying around in file cabinets, for Christ's sake!"

"Intel?" asked Lenny, his interest suddenly heightened.

"Yeah. _Intel_. We found some of their Top Secret project documents in one of their underground hideouts. They leave them in unsecured places because they have no reason to expect someone to burst in there and take them. And you're telling that in fifteen years, you haven't _once_ heard about the Harvesters or Titans? Yet you're going to turn around and bash us for _our_ ignorance?"

"Since you know so much, I trust you also know about where the Shapeshifters come from?" inquired Lenny, not appreciating Crow's allegations. "Do you know who created them? What do you know of the Silent War, and what's really going on?"

Crow didn't answer; Lenny had him beat there. And all Spock could do was eye the ZFT men with wariness.

"No?" he continued in answer to Crow's silence. "I didn't think so." Lenny turned contemplative, pivoting his head to silently confer with his buddy. "Seems we're both missing parts of the story. I think we might have gotten off the wrong foot. So let's try again. You say you have Intel. We'd be interested in seeing what you've found."

"Why would we do that?" asked Crow. "So that you cast us aside once you've taken what you needed? I don't think so."

"We're not heartless opportunists, Crow. I was thinking that we could fill each other in on the blanks before we go off our separate ways."

Spock looked to his partner in crime as the rest of the Front roster continued to observe the scene with unease.

"...Why don't we join forces instead?" offered Dan after a moment, to everyone's surprise.

"An alliance?" said Lenny, intrigued.

"Yeah, an alliance. Gottfried told me that the Second Wave is already in progress, and that Harvesters are walking around as we speak. We're going to need as many willing people as we can get if we're going to defeat them."

Crow chose to refrain from sharing his concerns about associating with rogue scientists and bioterrorists, as Gottfried had described ZFT. But the opportunity was there. While he wasn't particularly fond of Lenny, there was no denying that joining forces might prove to be mutually beneficial.

"Well, you don't seem entirely over your heads," mused Lenny aloud. "And you faced off against Vincent Allen Gottfried and lived to tell about it. Perhaps you're made of stronger stuff than I gave you credit for. We could use someone like you on our side."

"Let's make things clear," said Crow. "We aren't joining ZFT. And you won't be joining the Liberation Front. We'll continue to operate as our own organizations. But we'll help each other out, keeping ourselves updated on our operations."

"I think we might be able to sort something out," agreed Lenny.

"Crow," said Spock, nudging his head aside.

"Give me a moment to talk things over with my crew," said Dan.

"Of course," said ZFT's head honcho.

Crow and Spock distanced themselves, and Druid, Dryad, Roger, and Higgs swiftly joined themselves to their caucus.

"They're look like sketchy folk to me," hushed Druid. "I'll back you up, Crow, but still, are we sure we can trust them?"

"Gottfried told me that they're a gang of bioterrorists," explained Dan. "They're probable knee-deep in shady activities. But he also told me the Harvesters are up and running. Time's running out, and I don't see many other choices."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?" said Dryad.

"Exactly," affirmed Crow. "Spock?"

"I'm with you on this," replied the goateed man. "I agree with Druid, though. We should be careful when dealing with these guys."

"No need to tell me twice. What about you two?"

"We'll go wherever you go, Mister Crow," said Roger, with Higgs nodding once to support him.

"So we're all on board, then," said Dan. "Great."

Bringing an end to their conference, the group returned to their prior positions, facing Lenny and Friend as they too finished their own conversation.

"Looks like it's settled," announced Crow.

"Glad to hear it," said Lenny.

The two were facing one another; when Crow approached, Lenny tensed, then looked down to see the man extend a hand, which Lenny accepted.

"Daniel Thompson," said Crow as they shook. "Co-founder of the Liberation Front."

"Leonard Dunham, Captain of Zeta Cell." They ended their handshake, and Lenny stepped back. "No time to waste, Thompson. We have a lot to cover."

* * *

XxXxXxXxXxX

* * *

_A/N: At last, the curtain is pulled wide as we visit the masterminds behind Operation Ragnarok. I hope the first half of the chapter will give you plenty of food for thought._

_And in the second half, we get plenty of bombshells. Gottfried is still alive and has escaped, while The Guy is dead. (Blue) Henry Higgins comes into the fold, and we are introduced to Leonard Dunham, brother to James Dunham and uncle to Olivia Dunham. And now ZFT and the Liberation Front have formed an alliance to tackle the Waves of Operation Ragnarok. Interesting things lie ahead for our beloved Spock and Crow.  
_

_So it is that The Coming War concludes. For those interested in getting insight into what PTS IV might have in store, I will be placing teasers and whatnot on my profile page; I will also update my profile to mark significant milestones in the planning and writing process of PTS IV. It will likely not come out for quite some time, but I can assure you that it will be worth the wait._

_Well, hope you enjoyed the third of seven installments in this series. Four more remain, and it's only going to get wilder. And as always, any and all feedback is appreciated; feel free to leave reviews and comments if you have the time.  
_  
_With that, I will take my leave. Love and Light, folks! ;)_


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